The Hunt
by ames 449
Summary: John's helping a friend on a hunt. Leaving a 12 year old Sam behind, he thinks he will be safe, but Sam finds himself in serious danger. Meanwhile, John and Dean have their own problems. Can they save themselves, and Sam, before its too late?
1. Chapter 1

**AN note** - This grew out of a helluva lot of pestering to write the hunt I had mentioned in _The Watcher _with Dean and Joshua. I guess its kind of a... prequel... tag...? I dunno really what you would call it. Anyway, its set pre-season, following my AU, but before any of the events of _The Watcher_ are known. Therefore, it's not necessary to know any of the details of that story other than to know that Joshua is a character in that. Dean is just seventeen, Sam's twelve and Joshua is twenty-six.

Huge thanks to _Laughing_ and _GG101_ for beta'ing and giving me awesome advice - and also for stopping my head from spinning 360 degrees worrying about writing younger Winchesters. You have no idea how out of my comfort zone this story is. I havent been a teenager for that long that I think I've forgotten what the hell it was like. Oh and for those of you who are waiting for the sequel to The Watcher... its well under way.

I dedicate this story to my wonderful friend, _Jenilee_, whfo pushed me to write this, and held my hand through the ridiculous amount of freak outs I had putting these characters onto paper. I hope this is what you were looking for, and I apologise for taking such a long time to get it written.

* * *

**Chapter One**

_**The Black Hills, South Dakota**_

_**Tuesday 12 March, 1996**_

"Sam? Open your eyes."

The voice cracked through the solid wall of darkness engulfing him, reaching across the abyss, and attempted to drag him back to the waking world. Try as he might, Sam couldn't make his exhausted body comply with the request.

"Sammy?" the voice tried again, a hint of desperation layering the command. "C'mon, wake up, little brother."

Sam wanted to do as he was being asked, but he couldn't find the strength to prise his gritty eyes apart. He was exhausted, and he hurt in places he didn't know he could hurt. His body throbbed and felt too hot, and his skin prickled fiercely as a cold chill clawed up his arms and legs. Even swallowing was torture. His throat was raw, like he had swallowed shards of jagged glass and the dark solitude that existed behind closed lids dulled that pain. Sam welcomed it, letting his mind empty as he sought darkness once more, hoping to escape from his external pain. His brother, unfortunately, had other plans – plans that definitely did not involve sleeping.

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean's voice urged, fingers gently ghosting over his hair in an attempt to rouse him. "I know you feel shitty, but you gotta open your eyes, man."

The renewed insistence – and the onset of panic in Dean's voice – was enough to drag Sam out of the reverie of sleep. He forced his eyes open, managing nothing more than slitted lids as he struggled to latch onto something solid amongst the swirling vortex that was consuming his vision.

"Sam?" Dean pressed. "You back with me?"

Sam rolled his gaze, following the sound of his brother's voice, and squinted at the silhouetted figure looming over him, his brow furrowing. Something wet was running down the side of his face and it took him a moment to realise it was sweat. He wasn't sure how he could be sweating when he was so cold, but his hair was uncomfortably plastered to the side of his face.

"Dean…?" His own voice sounded raspy, as if he hadn't made a sound in months, and his tongue was glued to the roof of his impossibly dry mouth.

"In the flesh." His older brother's face wavered and splintered momentarily before coming back into focus. Sam blinked sluggishly, trying to hold his vision still and keep the cough that was tickling the back of his throat at bay. Miraculously, he managed both. "Hey! Keep your eyes open, narcolepsy boy. You can sleep once we're inside the cabin."

Sam hadn't even realised his eyes had slid shut again, and shifted his heavy lids towards his brother once more, confused.

"Cabin?" Sam shuttered his eyes slowly, testing the word on his wooden tongue, blinking salty sweat from his stinging eyes.

"Yeah, we're in the Black Hills." Dean replied. "Can you sit? We need to get out you of the car. You're ruining the upholstery doing your human faucet impression."

Sam frowned deeply. It took him a moment to realise that he was curled across the backseat of the Impala. Dean was bent down, his head and shoulders inside the car. Outside the vehicle, nightfall hung heavily to the silhouetted outlines of the trees. It gave his surroundings an almost eerie look.

Shifting his legs a little, Sam groaned at the knots that had settled in his muscles. He was going to have a hell of a problem moving. His limbs were sluggish, and not responding at all to his commands. He gave up trying to move after a moment and merely stared glassy eyed at his sandy haired brother, hoping his body would become more responsive in a moment.

"The Black Hills?" Sam repeated, blinking owlishly at his brother.

"South Dakota." Dean replied softly. "Not far from Deadwood." The older man grunted. "Speaking of which, you sleep like frigging deadwood." There was a pause as Dean took a moment to rove a scrutinising eye over his younger brother. Judging from the twist of Dean's lips, the older boy obviously thought Sam looked as crap as he felt.

Sam groaned, dragging a hand over his clammy brow, his gaze settling on the ceiling of the Impala. It was tempting to give into the need to close his eyes once more, but Dean's anxiety was enough to stop Sam from doing so. The last thing he wanted was his brother going into overdrive.

"I thought you were feeling better, Sammy."

Swallowing thickly, the younger boy managed a nod. "I was."

Sam had a chest infection that stubbornly refused to shift. A full week of hot sweats followed by chills that had racked him for hours had seemed to be clearing up with the aid of super strength antibiotics. Sam had started to feel better a few days ago, but right now he felt worse than he had at the height of his infection. Every breath was like inhaling barbed wire and his torso ached as if he had gone ten rounds with a pneumatic hammer.

"You're really burning up." Dean said, placing his hand on Sam's forehead, a trace of worry in his voice. The touch of skin on skin burnt like acid and Sam hissed, pulling back from Dean's fingers. The older man frowned, his brow pulled down into a v. "You take your meds before we left Toledo?"

"Who are you – Dr Quinn?" The twelve year old boy grimaced, stifling a groan as he struggled to sit up.

Dean reached out and helped his younger brother straighten, curling his hands into Sam's damp t-shirt. Even with his brother's assistance, Sam's limbs still trembled under his own weight. He felt as weak as a newborn kitten.

"Dr Quinn ain't got shit on me, kiddo." Dean said with a grin, before frowning once more. "So, did you take them?"

He didn't relinquish his hold on his younger sibling, but one hand moved to the small of Sam's back, supporting his weight as he struggled to find equilibrium with his surroundings. Sam let out an exhausted breath.

"Yeah, Dean, I took the antibiotics."

His head was pounding, pain gnawing against the bones, trying to burrow its way out of his skull. Squeezing his eyes shut, Sam waited for the sharp throbbing to recede before he dared to open them again.

"You ok?" The worry was back in Dean's tone.

"I feel like crap." Sam admitted, brushing shaky fingers through his sweat-drenched hair.

"I gathered that." Dean replied, glancing over his shoulder out of the open car door. "You ok to walk? It's not far."

"I'll be _fine_, Dean." Sam said, not wanting his brother to fuss. Now that he was fully awake, he felt more than a little embarrassed at how needy he was acting. He'd seen his dad and brother deal with wounds ten times worse and barely complain. _Suck it up_. That was the Winchester way. And Sam was trying to suck it up, but it was hard; he felt wretched. His brother obviously shared the same sentiment.

"Yeah, well, you look like shit, Sammy."

Sam gave him a dark glare. "Thanks."

Dean grinned.

"Don't mention it." His expression sobered. "You sure you can walk?"

"I've got a chest infection, Dean." Sam snapped irritably, feeling like a little kid being mollycoddled – despite the fact he probably needed mollycoddling. "I'm not dying."

Dean snorted. "In that case, you can help me unload the car. You have more bags than me and Dad combined, princess."

Sam ignored his brother's jibe as he attempted to stifle a yawn to little avail. Shivering against the post-sleep chill that seemed to invade his vulnerable body, the younger boy allowed Dean to help him to the edge of the bench seat. In all honesty, Sam wasn't sure he could have moved his body on his own just yet. He was stiff and sore.

Draping his legs out of the car door, he remained seated, leaning his right shoulder against the back of the chair. The cold air prickled his skin, seeping through the thin material of his clothes, chilling him to the very bone despite the raging inferno that seemed to be engulfing his entire body.

"What are we doing in the Black Hills?" Sam asked, his teeth chattering together, arm wrapped around his middle as he tried to warm himself. "I thought we were heading to Bobby's."

"We were," Dean answered, his worried gaze still locked on his younger brother. "Change of plan. Joshua Turner called en-route – said he needed Dad's help so we took a detour." Dean frowned at him, reaching over the seat and grabbing Sam's coat. Gently, he draped it around the younger boy's shoulders, rubbing his hands up and down Sam's arms. Sam welcomed the warmth. "You must have really been out of it, dude. I told you this." He appraised him suspiciously. "You feeling drowsy?"

Sam mirrored his brother's frown, shifting his shoulders.

"I… guess."

Dean's brow wrinkled further.

"The doc said those pills were strong. Didn't realise she meant they were the equivalent of horse tranquilisers. You're spaced, dude."

Sam gave his older brother what he hoped was a glare and not a squint.

"I'm _not_ high on antibiotics, Dean."

The sandy haired man grunted.

"Yeah, well, you look pretty out of it to me."

The younger boy planted his sock covered feet on the hard ground, wondering when the hell he had removed his sneakers. He didn't remember doing so. With a sigh, he twisted on the seat and tried to locate his shoes. Every move seemed to irritate his sensitive body even more.

Dean finally took pity on his younger sibling, reached into the foot well and rummaged under the seat until he found one of Sam's sneakers.

"Thanks," Sam murmured, carefully bending to pull his left shoe on. His entire torso felt like it was engulfed in flames and the motion had him grimacing.

"Need some help?" Dean asked, but Sam brushed off his brother's ministration.

"I can put my own shoes on."

"'Cause you're a big boy now, right?" Dean said with a hint of humour, watching as Sam slowly stuffed his right foot into the other sneaker.

"Shut up, Dean," Sam said but without any bite. He was too tired to bite. "Where's Dad?" Sam asked, finally getting his shoes secured.

"Inside the cabin."

Sam nodded sluggishly.

It was their usual routine. John would secure the building first with salt lines and various other charms before either of his sons were even allowed near the place. It was something that annoyed Dean to no end and often led to arguments about the fact he was now seventeen and should have been able to lay out the protections needed – especially considering how often John had left Dean to look after Sam when he had been off on a hunt somewhere. Not that he ever said so to their father.

Sam pushed his hands underneath him and levered himself to his feet, his hand fastening onto the rim of the car door as he tried to find traction. Every inch of him hurt and his body felt borrowed, like it was not his. He swayed a little, but Dean's strong grip fisting into his damp t-shirt gave him the time he needed to regain his balance. He wasn't dizzy or seeing double, but his head was muzzy and the simple shift of altitude made him waiver like a leaf in the breeze.

"Easy, Legs," Dean said gently.

Sam brushed him off after a moment, once the world had righted itself again. He didn't want his father to see him like this – weak. Although it was a foolish want. If Sam had been out of it since Toledo then there was a pretty good chance that John already knew that his youngest was suffering.

"Joshua'll be here within the hour." Sam glanced up through hot eyes and sweat-soaked bangs as his father appeared from the shadows, tucking his cell phone into the inside pocket of his jacket. It was as if thinking of the man had conjured him. John stopped suddenly, glancing at his youngest son with a frown. "You look like hell, kid."

"I'm fine, Dad."

The reply was instantaneous, so ingrained that Sam hadn't even realised the words had left his mouth until his brother snorted.

"Yeah, one step from spontaneous combustion, but he's _fine_." Dean retorted.

Sam gave his brother a dark glare, but John was already shouldering passed his eldest son. John placed a gentle hand on his forehead and frowned at the heat radiating from the twelve year old boy.

"Dean, unload the car. I'll help your brother inside."

John slipped his arm around Sam's waist, but Sam pulled back feeling even more weak than he already did. It was different with his brother. Dean didn't expect Sam to suck it up and deal. John… John expected miracles.

"I can walk."

John gave the twelve year old a hard look, but relinquished. Slowly and carefully Sam moved forward on rubbery legs, trying to ignore the fact that his father was following him closely. It pushed Sam on to move more quickly. He wanted to sit down and he didn't want to ask his father for help.

The cabin was directly in front of the Impala. It was a single storey building, completely encased in wood slats, and three long windows were streaming light from inside the building, casting murky orange glows across the driveway. A porch ran around the circumference, three steps leading up to the front door. Sam didn't even want to think about how he was going to manage those. His legs were protesting enough as it was. By the time he reached the front door, Sam was shaking and sweating even more. Wordlessly, John pushed the door open and let his youngest enter the cabin first.

The main living space was a through-room that housed the kitchen, dinning room and lounge all in one area. There were two comfortable looking navy blue sofas and a recliner that was near the fireplace. Sam made a beeline towards the couch, gently lowering himself back against the cushions and raising his legs. Letting his head fall back, Sam felt his eyes closing. He was tired and he couldn't decide if he was boiling or freezing.

Something draped over him and it took Sam a moment to realise his father had covered him with a heavy throw rug before his calloused hand came to rest on his forehead once more.

"You're really hot," John murmured with frown.

"That's what all the girls say," Dean injected as he stepped over the threshold. "Right, Sammy?"

Sam opened his eyes to half-mast slits and scowled at his brother, but his attention was snared by his father.

"Dean, get the first aid kit."

His older brother came over to them, kit in hand, passing it to John. His father pulled out the bottle of antibiotics and pressed two pills into Sam's hand. Pulling a bottle of water from his pack, he handed it to the young teen. Swallowing was painful as hell but somehow Sam managed to take the pills.

"Just two more, Sam, and then you can sleep."

Sam groaned as his father pushed two more tablets into his hand.

"What are these?" Sam asked, glancing up through wet bangs.

"Tylenol." His father said, relinquishing the tablets to his youngest. "It will help with the fever." John assured him.

Once he had swallowed them both, Sam let his head fall back against the cushions and closed his burning lids. His whole body felt like it was on fire. His shirt was stuck to his skin, sweat seeping through the material. He shivered uncontrollably, wishing his body would stop hurting.

"Get some sleep, Sammy."

Sam wanted to protest that he wasn't tired, but the tempting lull of sleep was inviting him into the darkness, and Sam gave into it.

* * *

Dean watched with a level of uncontrollable trepidation as his brother shifted on the couch. Dean could tell the kid was uncomfortable and the deep frown lines marring his forehead even as he slept had the older Winchester matching Sam's expression. His overly long, brown hair was darker and clung to his scalp like he had just stepped under a shower, and he had thrown one leg outside of the blanket, sweat pants rolled up to the knee as if he couldn't decide if he was too hot or too cold.

It was only a chest infection, but Dean had to keep reminding himself of that fact. It was never easy seeing his little brother in distress – even if it was nothing more than a run of the mill illness. Sam seemed so much more vulnerable than Dean had ever been at his age and at times that frightened the seventeen year old considering their lifestyle.

"He's not gonna pull a Houdini, Dean."

Dean started and flicked his head around as his father moved further into the room, dropping the rest of their belongings onto the round table.

"I wasn't –" Dean frowned deeply. "He's pretty sick, Dad."

John waved a nonchalant hand and he pulled back the zipper on the weapons bag. "He's fine, Dean. The doc checked him out before we left Toledo."

"Yeah, I know but… shouldn't he be getting better? Not worse. It's been over a week since he came down with this thing… A week, Dad."

John stopped unloading the guns and turned to his eldest son.

"Give the damn antibiotics a chance to work." John slid his gaze towards the restless sleeping form of Sam. "I get that you're worried, Dean, but it's a chest infection. He'll be fine. Bed rest and plenty of fluids and the kid will be back to normal in no time."

Dean nodded slowly. He trusted his father's judgement, and if John said he would be fine, then Sam would be fine. Still, it didn't stop him from worrying. Finally, tearing his eyes from his younger brother's supine form, Dean moved into the kitchen area and sank onto an empty chair that belonged to the dinning table. He let his eyes wander over the arrangement of guns and knives that had been carefully laid out across the surface by his father and scrubbed a hand over his face. He wished he had pushed his father to take his brother to Bobby Singer's before they had headed to the Black Hills. It hadn't been that much of a detour and Dean had the feeling that what Sam really needed wasn't medication, but some TLC. Pushing that from his mind, Dean raised green eyes to his father.

"Why'd Joshua call you on this?" Dean asked finally.

John shifted his shoulders.

"Not sure kiddo. He just said that it was important."

For John, that was enough. Dean knew his father didn't have that many people he considered friends in the hunting world, but Joshua Turner was one. Dean had met the man on a couple of occasions – usually in passing, and usually when they were staying at Pastor Jim's or Bobby's – but he knew his father hunted with the twenty-six year old frequently. Scrubbing a hand over his face, Dean reached for a Taurus, and began to disassemble it, even as his father moved towards the fridge to unload the groceries they had bought in Deadwood.

Joshua Turner arrived forty minutes later. The man hadn't changed much since Dean had last seen him. His chestnut hair grazed the nape of his neck, stray strands flicking out giving him a more youthful appearance and he was attempting to grow a beard. As John let him in, the hunter pulled off his beat up leather jacket and slung it over the coat rack near the door, straightening his navy blue t-shirt over his jeans.

"Johnny." Joshua held his hand out and John shook it with a grin. "Glad you came."

Joshua returned the grin with full dimples, his southern drawl giving him a slightly rougher edge.

"You said you needed my help," John replied, following the younger hunter as he moved towards the kitchen. "And the fact you footed the bill for this place was a good incentive for me to drop what I was doing."

Joshua snorted. "You're all heart, old man."

The kitchen itself was made up of a series of wooden cabinets, a relatively new stove and gingham. There was a hell of a lot of gingham every where. Joshua pulled a face.

"Man, I feel like one of the Walton's," he muttered. "This shit hole really is the back of goddamn beyond. Can't believe how friggin much it cost."

"Well, John-Boy, the motel down the road would have sufficed." John told him, earning a scowl from the other man.

"Information that would have been useful hours ago, John – before I abused my damn Gold Card."

John ignored the disgruntled man and continued to talk. "You know my son, Dean."

Dean jutted his jaw at the man by way of greeting. Joshua offered Dean his hand and the teen took it.

"The damn rugrats are gettin' bigger every time I see them, Winchester." Joshua said. He noticed Sam on the couch and gave John a puzzled look.

"Sam – he's not feeling too good."

Joshua gave him a contrite look.

"Dammit, John, if you'd said your kid was sick, I wouldn't have asked you to haul ass."

John shifted his broad shoulders. "Sammy is ok. Nothing a couple of days rest won't cure."

Joshua snorted. "I know your idea of ok, old man." The southern man leaned against the kitchen counter and folded his arms over his chest. "Even with limbs missin' you're still expected to keep damn well movin'."

"Saved your ass on more than one occasion following that rule, Turner."

Joshua shrugged, waving a negligent hand. "Semantics, man."

Dean felt suddenly pushed out, like there was a whole part of his father that he didn't know about. He had always felt close to John, but listening to him and Joshua bantering, Dean realised he didn't know his father as well as he thought.

"You wanna tell me why you've dragged me to this back road hellhole then?" John asked. Joshua's expression darkened and John gave him a knowing look. "Let me guess - Russell?"

"None other than the esteemed parent." Joshua snorted, dropping onto the empty sofa opposite Sam. He draped an arm over his eyes and let out a weary breath. "Swear to god the old man thinks he's twenty-one again."

"What's he hunting?" John asked.

"Werewolf," Joshua growled heatedly. "He's gonna get his dumb ass killed. Series of murders started in the area about six months ago. Dad figured out it was a wolf so he hightailed up here around the last full moon."

"Did he find the wolf?" Dean asked curiously.

He hadn't come across a werewolf before and he had to admit the thought of seeing one was pretty damn exciting. It was good old fashioned horror movie stuff – all that was missing was the b-movie bimbo, although Dean could probably rustle up one of those at a moments notice.

"Yeah, he found the fucking thing," Joshua rolled his eyes. "Nearly killed him in the process."

John sucked on his bottom lip. "Let me guess, Russell decided to play round two solo?"

"Round two? He's in for the final showdown. He's up here intendin' to nuke the little shit, but there's no way in hell he can take out a fully grown wolf alone." Joshua brushed his fingers through his dark hair. "The man is a goddamn pain in my ass, but he's my father. He's gonna get himself killed and, as much as that shit would be his own damn fault, he's the only family I got left, John."

The issue of family didn't need reiterating for John. Everything the older hunter had done had been for his family. He understood all too well that responsibility – as did Dean.

"Full moon's not till Wednesday, Josh." John laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. "If Russell is here, we'll find him."

Joshua gave him a smile that was filled with relief and gratitude. "Knew I could count on you, Johnny."

"Always." John replied sincerely. "I'm going to hit the hay. We'll start researching this thing tomorrow - and looking for Russell. Don't stay up all night, and don't corrupt my son."

Joshua grinned at the warning. "Would I do that?"

John rolled his eyes, but said nothing.

"Night, Dad," Dean said.

John moved towards the hallway off the main living area that led to the bedrooms. Left alone with Joshua, Dean watched the older hunter as he moved towards the fridge and began rummaging. After a moment, he came out empty handed.

"Christ, is this what your Daddy classes as damn food?" Joshua demanded.

"Your body is a temple." Dean smirked then added, "it's Zen according to John Winchester."

Joshua snorted, closing the fridge and moving over to his own bags. "Yeah, well it sucks."

Dean's expression faded into a frown.

"Your Dad's in real trouble, huh?" He asked after a moment, watching as Joshua pulled back the zipper and rummaged through his belongings.

Despite only meeting the man on a handful of occasions, Dean found he liked the older hunter. There was something about the unruly brown-haired southern that was familiar. Joshua, Caleb, Pastor Jim, Bobby and Jefferson were the few constants in his life – that and the Impala, his brother and father. In his nomadic lifestyle, people and objects were the only roots Dean had, and he clung to those things fiercely.

Joshua raised his gaze and let out a weary breath, halting his searching.

"The man thinks he's immortal." He lowered his gaze back to the bag and let out a grunt of satisfaction as he pulled a bottle of soda from his bag. He unscrewed the cap with a grin and took a long swig. When he had finished, he dragged his forearm across him mouth before his expression turned sombre. "He's too damn old to be playing Rambo, and the stubborn asshole doesn't have a goddamn clue how to hunt in the field. He's been out of the game for too long."

Dean knew all about parents and stubbornness. John Winchester had invented stubborn. Picking up a Beretta from the table, Dean quickly dissembled it, placing the parts on the surface as he reached for the oiled rag that was balled up in the weapons bag. As he caught Joshua's gaze, he smirked. The demon expert was staring wide-eyed at him.

"What?" Dean asked innocently.

"You're…" Joshua shook his head, swallowing hard. "How in the hell did you take that damn thing apart so quick?"

Dean glanced down at the disassembled gun with a grin. "Helps having an ex-marine as your father."

Joshua grunted and slouched into the nearest empty dinning chair, brushing dark hair off his face. "Yeah, Johnny's a real hard ass. He's one of the best in the field though – ain't no denyin' that." He slid his eyes back to the disassembled gun, frowning deeply. "Still, dude, that shit was friggin' freaky. I ain't never seen someone do that."

Dean shrugged, returning his gaze to his weapon and continued cleaning it, the rag whipping through the barrel in a blur of motion, but his eyes occasionally straying to the couch were Sam was sleeping. Joshua glanced over his shoulder, following Dean's line of sight.

"You worried 'bout the kid? " He asked.

Dean pulled a face and lowered his eyes to his gun.

"He'll be ok." He wasn't sure if he was saying that for Joshua's benefit or his own. Dean suspected it was the latter. He'd never seen Sam so sick before and it had all his protective urges on overdrive. "So uh, how'd you get into this?"

"Into what?" Joshua asked, taking another sip of his drink.

"Hunting." Dean replied, even as he reassembled the gun and reached for a shotgun. When Joshua pulled a face, Dean shrugged. "C'mon dude, everyone has a reason for doing this shit. No one chooses this life."

The older hunter shifted uncomfortably.

"My story ain't exactly bedtime readin', kid."

"Neither's mine," Dean replied with a wry smile.

Joshua's expression contorted painfully, his fingers picking at the label on the bottle. Dean found himself grimacing at the older man. A myriad of emotions were flickering across his face, but Dean couldn't help but pick up on the overwhelming sense of grief radiating from the demonologist.

"Didn't mean to put my foot in it, man," he apologised.

Joshua shifted his shoulders, visibly shaking himself as if he could throw off his painful past with the gesture.

"Nah, you didn't. Don't worry about it, kid." He pushed a piece of hair behind his ear before he scrubbed a hand over his bearded chin. "The past is the past. Can't change it."

Cursing his big mouth, Dean fell silent and focused on the shotgun in his hands as the stillness grew in the room, becoming unbearable with each passing second. Most hunters got into this life because they had seen something or been affected by the supernatural world that existed side-by-side with the 'real' world. Joshua's reasoning for getting into hunting was probably no different from John's, and like Dean's own past, it was probably painful as hell. Dean wished he hadn't said anything and so he was a little surprised when Joshua spoke again.

"It was a demon," the hunter said quietly, his eyes dark. "I musta been about seven when it happened. My dad… he'd hunted his entire life – was younger than you when he started - but he'd hit the road for months and then turn up at my mom's beat to hell. She'd patch him up and he'd hit the road as soon as he could. I thought he was a crazy sonuvabitch. He was always talkin' bout friggin' demons and spirits, but I guess crazy's relative."

He paused taking a shuddering breath, his face lined with pain.

"Dude, you don't have to-" Dean started, but Joshua cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"It's ok." He brushed a stray strand of long hair behind his ear once more before he continued, his voice hitching a little as spoke. "Anyway, he'd exorcised this mean sonuvabitch a few years previously. The bastard crawled outta the abyss and came lookin' for my dad. He found us instead." His lips twisted. "It killed my mom, my sister…"

Joshua broke off for a moment and Dean felt his stomach clench painfully. He tightened his grip on the shotgun until his knuckles were white.

"My older brother, Jeremy… he hid me. I heard him – I heard him… _die_. Thought I was a goner too, but then Russell…? He turned up like the fucking angel of mercy. He stopped long enough to exorcise that bastard and then we hit the road. Never looked back either." Joshua rubbed at his eyes, his brow pulled down into a v. "I've spent my entire life looking into demons. What I know about those sadistic fuckers, you could fill a book with, kid. I've exorcised more of them than I could count and every single one makes me feel that little bit better." He cleared his throat uncomfortably and sniffed as he reached for his bottle once more and took a drink. He cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably and he rubbed at his nose. "But I don't know jack about werewolves – which is why I called Johnny in."

Dean's brow wrinkled as he studied the older hunter. Losing his mom had been hard enough, but losing his entire family like Joshua had…? Dean couldn't even wrap his head around that. He couldn't imagine what he would do without his younger brother. Without meaning to, he found his eyes straying towards Sam's supine form once more.

"I'm sorry, Josh," Dean said as much sympathy as he could muster. There were no words that could ever make Joshua's history better, but Dean didn't know what the hell else to say. What did you say to a guy who had lost so much? He knew nothing anyone said to him was going to make him feel any better about his mom's death. Shit like that was impossible to put into words, and it was impossible to forget.

The older hunter shrugged listlessly, but there was still a tenseness in his bulky frame that belied his feelings.

"Like I said, it's in the past, kid. Ain't much anyone can do about it now."

"We'll find your father. Dad's good at what he does. And we'll even get the damn wolf," Dean assured him earning a smile from Joshua.

"Yeah, well I'm not worried about the wolf. The wolf I can handle. Russell on the other hand…?" He grimaced. "Well, let's just say he'll make the damn thing look like Lassie."


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks to everyone who reviewed or put this story on alert. I was totally overwhelmed with the amount of reviews I received. I think I replied to everyone, but if I missed you out, I'm sorry. I waffle complete crap in my replies anyway so you aren't missing much :D Oh and in answer to LynyrdSkynyrdRoadie question... Lol, no I've never heard of the guy. I actually just picked it at random from a list of popular American surnames. I liked how it sounded. That's amusing though. Thanks for sharing that tidbit of information.

Thanks to _Laughing_ for the beta. I added lots more to this after she did her beta so any remaining mistakes are definitely my own.

Again, I dedicate this story to _Jenilee_, who I'm grateful is such a pest becfause wfithout her pestering this story would never have existed. :) Thank you, my dear.f

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**Chapter Two**

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_**The Black Hills, South Dakota**_

_**Tuesday 12 March, 1996**_

Sam awoke to an empty room. It took him a moment to orientate himself in the unfamiliar surroundings and to remember where he was. The details of arriving in The Black Hills in the early hours of Tuesday morning were hazy, but Sam vaguely recalled his brother and father helping him inside the building. That was about all he did remember.

Sam was sprawled on the couch, a thick blanket tangled around his legs. Someone – he assumed his brother – had removed his sneakers and socks, placing them at the side of the sofa. Turning his head to the side, Sam glanced around the cabin, trying to get a better look at where they were staying this week.

Logs were crackling in the hearth adjacent to were he was lying, orange flames licking the back of the fireplace, throwing a pleasant heat into the room – at least it would have been pleasant if Sam didn't feel like he was already on fire. The through room that housed the kitchen, dinning area and living space was empty, but there were dishes on the drainer, and a stack of books were perched precariously on the edge of the round table. Thick rugs covered the bare wooden floors sporadically throughout the room, and along the length of each wall were framed photographs of certain landmarks within the area. There was a homely feel to the cabin, and the smell of coffee that permeated the air only added to that, reminding Sam of his father. Clearly John was up and about. No one could drink coffee that strong apart from his father. The man was addicted to caffeine.

Wincing, Sam pushed trembling hands underneath him and sat up with a groan. That was as far as he got before he was sagging back against the cushions once more. His body didn't seem to want to comply with his requests. He felt awful. He was uncomfortably hot, but at least his headache had receded to a dull, bearable throb. Obviously, the Tylenol his father had forced into his hand last night had helped a little.

"Sleeping Beauty arises." Sam twisted his head in time to see his brother emerge from one of the doors off the main room. He assumed it led to the bedrooms. "How you feeling, Sammy?"

Dean looked sleep rumpled, and absently Sam wondered what time it was as his sandy-haired brother moved over to the couch. Without waiting for an invite, Dean clamped a hand over his kid brother's forehead.

"Dean!" Sam complained, pulling back from his ministrations, the touch irritating his burning skin. "Cut it out!"

"You're still warm," his older sibling noted, roving scrutinizing eyes over his younger brother.

"I feel better," Sam lied, combing his displaced, sweaty bangs back into place with his fingers.

Dean arched his brow, moving to the edge of the couch so he could perch on the arm rest.

"Really? 'Cause I gotta tell you, you're doing a great impression of a human radiator right now."

Sam scowled and stared at the ceiling. Whilst he appreciated Dean's concern, his worrying was getting old - really fast. Sam didn't want to draw attention to how crappy he felt. He didn't want to disappoint John – or Dean for that matter - by showing such weakness with nothing more than a damn chest infection.

Shifting his shoulders to push out the aching bloom that had settled over his muscles, Sam scooted to the edge of the sofa and attempted to rise once more. His legs, however, had other ideas. They shook under his weight and it took all of Sam's will to stop them folding beneath him. It didn't help that the room was rolling around him either or that the walls, floors and everything in between, were also dripping into one another.

Sam didn't even see Dean move, but his brother was suddenly at his elbow, lowering him back onto the couch gently.

"Shit, Sammy," Dean muttered, easing the younger boy back against the cushions. "More haste, less speed. You ok?"

Sam nodded, but wished he hadn't. His vision splintered and his head gave a violent throb of pain against his left temple. Squeezing his eyes shut, he rubbed trembling fingers over the area, trying to diffuse the pain - not that it helped. His receding headache was back in full force now.

"I think standing up might be off the cards, little brother." There was a pause. "You sure you're ok?"

The apprehension in his older brother's tone had Sam prising his lids open. Green eyes were appraising Sam's supine form carefully.

"I just stood up too quickly," Sam murmured, his voice croaking as he spoke. God, he hated being ill. He hated being dependent and needy. He hated relying on his brother for assistance. His body gave a violent throb of pain as he tried to shift on the couch to get comfortable.

Dean gently brushed sodden bangs out of Sam's eyes as the younger boy winced and sighed.

"You ain't tall enough to get altitude sickness, dude."

Sam mirrored Dean's exhale and let his head sink back against the cushions as his brother pulled the blanket back over him, tucking the edges tightly around his torso. Sam wanted to stop his ministrations, but he was too tired to argue. Besides, it wasn't an argument he would win. Dean was in full protective older brother mode, and there was no stopping him when he was.

"How you really feeling – and no bullshitting, Sam," Dean warned with a tone that suggested lying would not be tolerated. Sam let out a long, suffering sigh.

"I feel awful," Sam admitted reluctantly.

His head hurt, but that wasn't the worst of it. His chest felt as if elastic bands had been wrapped around his ribs and were being slowly tightened. The chills that were racking his body were nothing more than the icing on the cake of just how crappy Sam felt.

Dean merely snorted at Sam's revelation, "I guessed as much." He squeezed his brother's arm and gave him a warm smile. "Get some sleep."

Sam frowned at his brother.

"I'm not tired."

"Well… _try_." Dean scowled at his younger brother's stubbornness.

Sam's frown deepened, but the conversation was halted by the front door opening. A rush of cold air swept in from outside, icy fingers caressing the room as it moved through the space swiftly until the door was finally shut. Sam was a little surprised that the figure who entered was not their father. He immediately went on alert, stiffening. Sam cast a glance at his brother who had raised his gaze the moment the door handle had jiggled.

"It's Joshua," Dean said softly, green eyes locking onto the younger boy's face. His fingers gave a gentle, reassuring squeeze of Sam's forearm, letting him know it was ok, that there was no danger.

Sam hadn't seen the man in a long time and it took him a moment to recognise the rangy hunter. Even if he hadn't recognised Joshua, his brother's assurance was enough. The twelve year old trusted his brother completely. His body relaxed, the tension draining out of him, as the realisation set in that it was a friend and not a foe.

"Shit, it's damn cold out there." Joshua's chestnut hair was bedraggled and plastered across his face from the wind. A light dusting of snow was sprinkled across the shoulders of his heavy jacket, his cheeks rosy from the chilly March air. Joshua stomped his feet on the welcome mat before toeing his boots off and placing them by the side of the door. His jacket followed suit, finding its way onto one of the hooks after a moment.

Dean was studying the man with a weighted gaze.

"Where've you been?" He inquired.

Joshua shrugged. "Snooping. What about you, Poindexter? Get much work done?"

Dean smirked. "I just woke up."

Joshua gave him a hard glare. "Your father drags me outta bed at the ass crack of dawn to question a bunch of superstitious old crones with wandering hands, and _you_ get to lie in?"

The sandy haired teenager merely shrugged. "What can I say? He loves me." He gave Joshua a shit eating grin. "Besides, this is your gig. We're just supervising."

"_We're just supervising,"_ Joshua snarked with an eye roll, speaking the words in a droll, sing-song tone of voice.

Dean raised a brow.

"It's hard to imagine you're nearly ten years older than me at times, man." Dean shook his head with mock disappointment. "Sammy's more mature then you are – and he's twelve."

"I'm more mature than you too, Dean," Sam countered with a faint smile before adding, "- and I'm nearly thirteen."

"Hold your tongue, traitor!" Dean scowled at him. When he turned back to the older hunter, his tone was serious. "So, did you find anything - aside from the next notch on your bedpost?" A grin cracked across his face as he rose from the sofa, joining Joshua at the dining table.

The older man merely shot him an irritable glare.

"Just bits and pieces – which is incidentally all they found of the victims this thing's been snacking on."

Sam wrinkled his nose at the graphic description, but his brother merely grunted.

"Nice, dude."

Joshua pulled a folded wad of paper from his jeans pocket and smoothed it out on the table before handing it to Dean. The younger hunter flicked through the sheets, briefly pausing to perusing each one.

"These are the missing hikers?" Dean asked after a moment.

"Yeah," Joshua replied, pulling a face. "The ones that just 'walked off' into the woods one day and supposedly never came back." He snorted, slumping into a chair, and swung his feet onto the table top. "And – get this - they date back further than six months. The first missing persons case in the area was four years ago."

Raising his eyes from the paper, Dean arched his brow.

"So this isn't a new thing. Cujo's been dragging victims off the beaten path for a while."

Joshua nodded, rubbing wearily at his eyes. "The mauled victims that turned up dead more recently are towards the back of the pile. Hikers might well have been goin' missin' for years, but they only wound up dead in the last six months. Before that...? No bodies. Just a handful of relatives wonderin' what the hell happened to their loved ones."

Dean nodded thoughtfully, lowering his eyes back to the papers once more.

Sam watched the exchange with a frown. It would have usually been him and Dean doing the leg-work on a hunt. It was strange having a third wheel. Sam knew it was stupid to feel that way, but he was so used to it just being his small family unit. The added extra person was a little hard to handle. It was different when Pastor Jim or Bobby helped them out; Sam had known both men for years – and he knew them well. Joshua was practically a stranger, and Dean _liked_ him. They had similar humour, humour that was very different from Sam's. Watching them laughing and joking made him feel… uncomfortable.

"Where's Dad?" Sam asked, suddenly wanting his father here, although he wasn't sure why.

"You know your Daddy, Sam," Joshua's gaze settled on the twelve year old boy as he leaned further back in the chair, his fingers locking behind his head, "he'll come back once he's bled the entire town dry of info."

Dean turned to his brother.

"You want something to eat?"

Sam wasn't really hungry, but Dean was already moving towards the cupboard. Evidently it hadn't been up for debate; Sam was eating whether he was hungry or not. Dean returned a moment later with a bowl of cereal and waited whilst Sam pushed himself up onto shaky elbows.

"Thanks, Dean," Sam mumbled, taking the bowl from his brother once he was sat upright. Dean relinquished his grip once he was sure Sam had a firm grasp of it.

"Yeah, well, I'm not carrying your malnourished ass around."

Sam rolled his eyes. It was crap, and they both knew it, but Sam didn't contest it. Instead he dug his spoon into the bowl and took a tentative mouthful of food. He wasn't sure he would be able to stomach anything, but Dean was hovering, and probably would continue to do so until Sam got something solid into his system. Rather than waiting for his brother to decide to spoon feed him like a kid, Sam complied with Dean's request to eat. It was easier in the long run.

"Where in the hell did you find cereal?" Joshua demanded, eyeing the boys suspiciously. "Last night there was nothin' but some kind of goddamn health food shit."

"Dean hides the good stuff from Dad," Sam said quietly.

"Only 'cause you're a nightmare on sugar - and I get the blame for giving it to you, dude." Dean countered with a grin.

The older man scowled, casting a glare at Dean.

"You held out on me," Joshua accused, pointing a finger at the older sibling.

Dean merely shrugged, moving over to the fire and tossing a few sticks into the flames. It crackled happily at the new source of fuel.

"You've got a Gold Card. Buy your own cereal."

"Speaking of Dad, how the hell did he afford this place? He win the lottery and not tell us?" Sam asked, hesitantly pushing the cereal into the milk with a frown as his stomach gave a rebellious lurch. Maybe eating wasn't such a good idea.

Dean waved a hand in Joshua's direction, "You can thank Flash for that."

Joshua scowled.

"Actually, you can thank Utah State University." When both Winchester siblings gave him a puzzled look, the twenty-six year old man continued to explain. "I teach there sometimes. Gave a lecture a week ago that's payin' for the penthouse suite you're currently enjoyin'."

Dean snorted, but didn't say anything else. It beat the hell out of most of the crapped out motels they stayed in. It made a change to spend a few days in something half decent. Most of the time, they were faced with questionable sheets, dirty bathrooms and gaudy carpets. This place was practically The Hilton in comparison.

"Did you find any info on Russell while you were being groped by little old ladies?" Dean asked, rising from the fire side and wiping his hands on his jeans.

The southern man pulled a face, picking at the edge of the table, and ignored Dean's jibe.

"The old man seems to be doing a good impression of a needle in a damn haystack."

"What about the wolf?" Dean reached for the box of cereal on the side and poured a large handful into his palm. He shoved the whole lot into his mouth and chewed slowly around the bulging mass, but he was unable to fully close his mouth. Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's lack of manners.

"Found enough to locate its hunting ground," Josh said, brushing his hair out of his eyes. "It shouldn't be that difficult to track."

Sam blinked.

"Wolf? You're hunting a _werewolf_?"

He knew they were savage and dangerous as hell. One bite and it was all over. Sam's stomach wasn't the only organ doing somersaults. His heart was doing a pretty good impression of the energiser bunny within his chest.

"Yeah," Dean shrugged nonchalantly. "Go figure. Years of hunting ghosts and we finally get the big one."

"Dean-" Sam began, unable to keep the apprehension out of his voice, but his brother cut him off.

"Don't worry, Sammy. Cujo doesn't stand a chance. Besides, Dad knows what he's doing with this thing. This ain't exactly the first wolf he's hunted."

Sam trusted his father to keep his brother alive, but he couldn't help but worry. Werewolves weren't a simple case of salting and burning. There were too many unknowns, too many things that could go wrong. It wasn't a walk in the park, and Dean's blasé attitude worried the younger boy. Sam didn't like this. He didn't like it at all.

"It's just the one?" Sam demanded, flicking his gaze between his brother and Joshua.

"Looks that way," Dean replied, but Sam found himself frowning.

"You're sure it's a werewolf?"

"Yeah," he said, taking another handful of cereal and shoving it into his mouth again. "Why?"

Sam frowned, putting the bowl down on the small table at the side of the couch. He'd lost his appetite – not that he'd had much of one to begin with, but he suddenly felt sick to his stomach. An uneasy sensation had taken root and was sending chills up his spine that had nothing to do with his illness.

"Something about all of this seems… _wrong_."

"What d'ya mean?" Dean asked around a mouthful of dry cereal.

"Well, it just seems weird behaviour for a wolf. I mean… the whole hunting in the forest thing…?" Sam arched a dubious brow at his brother.

Werewolves tended to dwell in cities where there was an abundance of people, ripe for the picking. Sam wasn't sure he had ever heard of werewolves living wild.

"Yeah, go figure," Dean said, scratching absently at his cheek before shrugging. "American Werewolf in London this ain't."

Sam's forehead pulled into a v, his apprehension growing.

"It doesn't make sense, Dean."

"The research is pretty solid on this, Sammy. Twelve people have gone missing in the last six months – all of them wound up mauled to death. Local authorities hacked it up to hikers straying off the path and wandering into bear territory," Dean added with a slight shift of his shoulders. "Sounds classic werewolf to me."

"All around the full moon?" Sam pressed.

Even with his fevered haze something about this just didn't sit right. Joshua said the first missing person case that related to this hunt was four years ago, but no bodies were found until six months ago… It was odd, and Sam didn't understand why Dean couldn't see that.

His older brother nodded, moving back into the kitchen area and hiding the cereal in the back of one of the floor cupboards.

"Like clockwork," Dean replied as he straightened. "All of them tourists – no locals have gone missing at all."

Sam frowned.

"Ok, so assuming this thing is a wolf… Why all of a sudden has it started killing openly? It doesn't make sense. Why keep a low profile for years and then leave an obvious trail?"

"Maybe it got sloppy, maybe it got bored – who knows, who cares," Dean said with a shrug. "Either way, Cujo's going down."

Sam shook his head. "It's changed its M.O."

"You been reading the dictionary again?" Dean asked with an amused twitch of his lips.

Sam scowled at him. "Something about this isn't right, Dean. Why the woods? And why has it changed its usual method of hunting?"

Dean shrugged again. "I dunno, Sam. Either way, we're going up to the mountains tonight. The first night of the full moon is tomorrow and we've gotta find Russell before that."

Joshua, who had remained silent throughout the conversation, suddenly spoke.

"I don't know much about wolves, Dean, but maybe the kid's on to something here." He folded his arms over his chest, and ran his tongue over his lips. "These things are predators, right?"

Dean nodded, and Joshua continued.

"It's been smart about this whole thing - up until the last few months that is. It ain't raised the attention of the authorities and it was only the brutality of the murders in the last few months that caught Russell's attention. Hikers go missin' all the time, but maulings…? That's classic wolf – any idiot hunter with half a brain cell was bound to notice after a while and come lookin'. Why risk exposure?"

Dean rolled his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face.

"Ok Mulder, for a start this is nothing more than a simple wolf case. If there _is_ anything more to it than that, then Dad'll find it. Secondly, whatever Lassie's playing at, it doesn't matter. This is the last full moon it will see again."

Sam wanted to believe that, he really did, but he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this and that made him uneasy as hell.

* * *

John returned an hour later, snow dusted just like Joshua had been, his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, his cheeks red with cold. He didn't say anything as he moved over to the fire and rubbed his arms in an attempt to warm up.

Sam had been ordered to remain on the couch under Dean's 'instructions' to rest. Instructions… Sam almost laughed, more like _orders_. Sam had the feeling that his older brother wasn't above tying him to the damn couch to make him stay put – not that he was planning on moving. He was tired and throughout the morning he had drifted in and out of sleep, despite trying to remain awake. His body wasn't exactly being receptive to his wants at the moment, and that was frustrating.

The last time Sam had tried to get up to help Dean and Joshua research, Dean had shoved a book in Sam's hands hoping that it would keep his younger sibling occupied. He probably hoped it would also stop Sam from worrying. In fact, it had resulted in the opposite. Sam was convinced now that something more was going on here. In everything that he had read, werewolves were creatures of habit. They stuck to the same hunting ground. They killed in the same ways. The change in its behaviour had Sam fretting, but his protestations to Dean and Joshua had fallen on deaf ears. They had explained everything away with oddly logical arguments that Sam hadn't been able to counter. He couldn't say what it was exactly, but Sam had such a bad feeling about this hunt. However, he knew that his father was bound to be less receptive to his fears than Dean. He'd probably get more response out of the damn wall.

Dean and Joshua were sat at the dinning table, mapping out the previous attacks, trying to get a general location of the wolf's usual territory. It looked like something out of a war cabinet meeting. Books littered the table top and articles were pinned to the wall behind them, red circles surrounding information of importance. Both men halted their discussion at John's arrival, but the eldest Winchester's gaze was locked on his youngest son.

"You look awful," John said after a moment.

Sam gave him a smile that was laced with exhaustion. Lying to his father was pointless. He was like a human lie detector. He'd see through whatever crap Sam spouted and so he sought solitude in silence.

John studied him for an uncomfortably long moment. "Did you take your antibiotics?"

Dean spoke before Sam could answer. "Don't worry, Dad, he's been a good boy."

Sam flipped his brother off with a scowl as soon as John's gaze was averted.

"Did you boys find anything out?" John asked, moving over to the dinning area. He paused at the table, pressing his palm onto the top, his eyes roving over the masses of research littering the surface.

"Found out a helluva lot about the damn wolf attacks," Joshua replied, leaning back in the wooden chair, but there was a hint of frustration in his tone. "Not so much about my father."

"Good thing I'm persuasive," John muttered, stripping his coat off after a moment and hanging it on the back of an unoccupied chair. The melting snow that had lightly covered the shoulders of his jacket was starting to melt and water drops dripped onto the floor creating a small puddle beneath the garment. "Russell bought a load of camping equipment from the store in town – enough stuff to suggest he was going up there for a while."

Joshua dragged a hand over his bearded chin and frowned.

"Russell friggin' hates camping – and for the record, so do I," Joshua replied sourly. "Swear to god, if he ain't dead when we find him, I'll kill the stupid old bastard myself. I mean, what the hell is he playin' at? He ain't got a damn clue how to hunt a werewolf – never mind the fact he's up here solo."

"He's… uh… not exactly solo." John interrupted Joshua's tirade quietly. The southern hunter's head snapped up.

"_What_?"

John's eyes tightened a little, but that was the only reaction he gave.

"Caleb's with him."

"Caleb?" Josh's eyes narrowed. "As in _Caleb_, Caleb? Caleb, arms dealer, _Caleb_?"

"Yeah," John replied, scrubbing a hand over his face. "_That_ Caleb."

Joshua's lips twisted angrily.

"I'll kill them both," Joshua snarled.

Sam frowned deeply. He knew Caleb, knew him pretty well in fact. John had always said Caleb was a good man, a good hunter and an expert shooter. Surely Joshua should have been pleased that his father was with someone with at least a little experience. However, the man seemed anything but pleased. In fact, he looked furious.

"Well before you go in all guns blazing, Rambo, just try and remember that you called me here to help you get your father out of this in one piece."

"I called you here because I'm _not_ a hunter, John. Traipsing through the fucking forest ain't exactly part of the goddamn job description."

"And what job description is that, Josh?" John looked amused.

"I track demons – demons and ghosts, John – that's about as far as my huntin' skills go." Joshua pushed his fingers through his hair, "I don't know how the hell to track a werewolf. I wouldn't even know where the hell to start. Give me a kid with a spinnin' head, puking pea soup and I'm your guy, but huntin' Cujo --? Ain't my goddamn thing."

John almost rolled his eyes.

"Do you want to hear what I found out, or do you just want to rant all day?" John demanded. Joshua managed a sheepish look and indicated for him to continue. "The girl in the camping store said he bought a map for the Deadwood Trail."

"Most of the missing hikers disappeared along that route, around the most northern part," Dean confirmed, pointing to the map and tracing his finger along the area that was circled in red pen.

Joshua got to his feet, his gaze focused on the map. Sam listened from the couch, wishing he could be a part of their discussion. He felt pushed out, alone, useless. His family didn't need his help and he suddenly felt worthless, like he was nothing more than baggage that his father and brother were forced to drag around. He couldn't help track creatures like Joshua had. He couldn't hunt like Dean. He couldn't do anything. All he did was slow them down. He forced his eyes closed, trying to push the self-pitying thoughts out of his head, but Sam felt the truth of his own words weighing down on him.

"So, likelihood is that Russell's gonna be around that area somewhere," Joshua was speaking again and Sam forced his eyes open. If they wouldn't listen to his worries, at least he hoped they would come up with a decent plan of action.

"It's a start," Dean nodded, "but even if we head up after him, there's almost twenty square miles of parkland within that circle. How the hell are we going to figure out exactly where Russell and Caleb are?"

John sucked thoughtfully on his bottom lip, his eyes gravitating to the map.

"Track the wolf," John replied. "Odds are we'll meet them around the area."

He glanced at his eldest son and Joshua, dropping his hands onto his hips, his expression pensive. After a moment he shook himself and took a deep breath.

"Pack up the supplies, Dean. The full moon's tomorrow night so we'll need to leave ASAP if we want a chance of catching up with Caleb and Russell."

It was spoken quietly but there was no mistaking the command. Dean was already moving towards the bedroom, complying without question to his father's demands, but Joshua had yet to move.

"Anyone ever tell you that you're a friggin' killjoy, Winchester?" Joshua asked mildly, tearing his eyes from the map and glancing over his shoulder.

"You called me in on this gig, Turner. You don't get to sit on the sidelines."

Joshua rolled his eyes looking more like a petulant teen than a twenty-six year old man.

"I paid for the damn accommodation," he countered, but John gave him a lopsided smile.

"The cost of doing business, Josh."

The demonologist scowled.

"I hate camping," he muttered even as he started towards the bedroom to pack his belongings together.

Left alone with his father, Sam glanced up at the older man. John was reaching for his own backpack even as he let out a long breath. He looked tired, wearier than Sam had seen him in a long time. Sam sighed.

"So am I staying at the cabin tonight?" He resisted adding _alone_.

Sam was pretty much used to staying in motels alone. John allowed him to help on the research, but that was about as far as Sam ever got. He would wait in whatever dump John had left him in for days, praying and hoping that his father and brother would come back in one piece. Sam hated being left behind. It scared him. And not because he was frightened of what was out there - although that was scary enough - but because he was afraid of what would happen if his father and brother didn't come back. They were all he had, and as a twelve year old kid, the thought of being alone was terrifying.

More often than not they returned with nothing more than bruises, but on the odd occasion there had been more serious injuries that had required stitches and days of bed rest. Sam never slept properly the whole time his family were gone. It was too hard to sleep knowing that there was a chance one of them wouldn't come back. Sam wasn't stupid, he realised how dangerous their lives were. He also realised that there was no second place; second place was dead, and that wasn't an option as far as Sam was concerned.

John glanced over his shoulder briefly before returning his attention to checking the guns he had already loaded into his pack.

"Yeah, kiddo."

"I could help, you know?" Sam muttered.

John rubbed his eyes wearily. "Please, Sam – don't start."

Sam thought about pushing it further, but decided against it. Pushing John Winchester was about as clever as poking a bear with a tazer gun; it was bound to end in tears.

"Look, I get that it's frustrating being left behind, kiddo, but this thing is dangerous and you're still running a fever."

Sam sighed again. He knew his father was right, but his brain heard what it wanted to. John thought he was a liability. John thought he was weak. John didn't think he could do it. Sam hated the way his family looked at him. Even Dean treated him with kid-gloves half the time. He was tired of being babied.

"I don't like leaving you here, Sammy," John said quietly, "but trust me – you're safer."

"Safer?" Sam demanded irritably. "You think I want to be safe while you and Dean are risking your lives?"

John winced a little at the abrasive tone of his youngest son.

"Your brother and I will be fine, Sam. We're good at what we do."

"And I'm not." The words slipped unbidden from his mouth before he could stop them. Sam could have put his loose tongue down to his fever, said he was delirious or something, but the truth was he'd felt it for a while now. He just didn't measure up to the standards his father required. He wasn't as tough, or as fast as Dean. Sure, he was smart, but that didn't count for anything in their world, and Sam felt inadequate most of the time. He was tired of walking in the shadows of others.

Dean had been a few months older than Sam when he had gone on his first hunt. Sam felt at times that his father and brother would never allow him to grow up. Being the youngest had its perks, but it also sucked at times. This was definitely one of those times when it sucked. His father didn't seem to grasp that Sam didn't want to be safer. He didn't want to be left behind to wonder if John and Dean were hurt – or worse, dead. Sam was hardly weak, he spent hours sparring with Dean, and he could shoot any gun that John put in his hands, but still he felt like he was doomed to be left behind for the rest of his life.

"Sam-" John started, but broke off, his mouth moving soundlessly as he tried to find the words he needed to reassure his youngest. He never found them however. He never did. Shaking himself, John sighed.

"There's enough food for four or five days, but if we're any longer than that there's money in trunk of the car." John grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. "This shouldn't take longer than that, though. If we're not back in seven days, call Jim Murphy or Bobby Singer – Singer's closer, but Jim's only an hour further out."

Sam gave his father a sullen nod which John didn't even register.

"Take your meds, and keep warm. Don't go traipsing around town – in fact, stay in the cabin. Tell your brother I'm outside. I need some extra supplies," John added as he headed towards the door.

Sam knew his father probably had everything he needed in his pack already and that his removal from the room was probably more so he could avoid the argument that was brewing.

Joshua and Dean emerged from the bedrooms within seconds of one another. The older hunter headed outside to talk with John, but Dean lingered.

"What's wrong with you?" Dean questioned suspiciously.

"Nothin'" Sam grouched.

"It sure as hell looks like _something_." Sam scowled as his brother moved over to the couch and perched on the arm of it. "Is this about you staying here?"

Sam shifted his shoulders with as much nonchalance as he could muster. "Don't see why I can't come. I've read loads on werewolves. I can help."

He gave his brother his patented kicked puppy look, hoping it would soften his resolve, but Dean remained unwavering as he gave his younger sibling a patient look.

"Sam, it's not about what you know. Werewolves are dangerous. You could get hurt."

"So could you," Sam countered angrily.

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, but I won't."

His haphazard attitude only fuelled the pre-teen's anger further.

"You're not immortal!"

"Never said I was," the older boy shot back, the beginnings of irritation bleeding into his voice. "Besides, you're still ill. You should rest up, get better."

That was the last thing Sam wanted to hear. It only added to his own insecurities that he was nothing more than a burden, a liability, useless baggage.

"I'm not a kid, Dean," Sam growled. "I don't need my brow mopping!"

Dean frowned at him. "What's this really about?"

Sam gave him a heated glare. "Why the hell does Dad bother teaching me how to use weapons, how to fight, if I'm never going to come along?"

Dean rubbed a weary hand over his eyes and scowled. "Jesus, Sam. Are we gonna have this same damn argument every time me and Dad go on hunt?"

Biting down on his lip to stop the overbearing emotions that were turmoiling around his head from overspilling, Sam clung fiercely to his anger, hiding behind it.

"It's not you who has to wait behind, wondering if-"

Dean raised green orbs to study his brother for a moment.

"Wondering _what_?"

Sam pulled a face, hiding behind his overly long, unruly hair, and shifted his shoulders. "Forget it, Dean."

His older sibling let out a low breath.

"Sammy…?" Dean's voice was unusually gentle. "Me and Dad…? We're not going anywhere. Don't worry."

Sam hated that his brother could read him so well. He hated that Dean knew every expression, every emotion, every thought Sam had before he'd even articulated it. He clenched his jaw tightly, forcing himself to calm down, knowing his anger wasn't directed at his brother, but at the situation. Sam was worried, and he was hiding behind his irritation, hoping the sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach was just nerves and nothing more untoward.

"We'll be back before you know it, brat," Dean said.

Sam wanted to believe his words. He wanted to hold onto them and never let the assurance go, but in his short life Sam had realised one thing. Fate was a mean bitch, and if she chose to take his remaining family from him, Sam wouldn't be able to do a damn thing to stop her. Slowly, he slid his eyes towards his older brother, blinking away the veiled mist that was starting to blur his vision.

"Promise?"

It was an unfair thing to ask, but Dean didn't miss a beat as he replied, "I promise."

The teen squeezed Sam's shoulder and gave him a small smile.

"Now, d'ya think you could lay off Dad? He ain't gonna be much fun in the wilderness if he's pissed before we even start."

Sam forced a smile, but he still felt uneasy. He had a really bad feeling about all of this. He couldn't say why, but Sam knew this whole hunt was screwed from start to finish. He had the feeling that his father had bitten off more than he could chew, and that scared the boy. He watched his brother turn and leave the cabin with a level of trepidation that seemed unnatural. It didn't stop him from praying to whoever the hell would listen that his family came back in one piece.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN **- sorry for the long gap between chapters. This week has been a crazy one. Between my birthday, getting my exam results and what I'm sure is an illegal amount of hours at work, I feel like I'm losing my mind. Not that this week looks set to be any calmer, but still. Hope you guys like this chapter.

Thanks go to my beta _Laughing_ for her awesome suggestions of how to make this better and for beta'ing this in such a short time span. Any further mistakes are mine.

Dedicated to _Jenilee. _

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Three**

_**The Black Hills, South Dakota**_

_**Tuesday 12 March, 1996**_

Dean hated leaving Sam behind. He hated it more than he would ever admit to his younger brother - or his father for that matter. Every time he walked out of a motel room, a hundred scenarios ran through the seventeen year old hunter's head. Would Sam be ok? Would he know what to do in an emergency? Would he still be there when they returned? The list was endless, and it made him sick to his stomach at times.

There was more to worry about than perverts, freaks and whack jobs getting hold of his kid brother. In their lives, there was also the added threat of demons, ghosts and other creatures that supposedly only existed in the overactive imaginations of children and Hollywood directors. Dean despised not being there – in case something _did_ go wrong. His whole life had been geared towards protecting his little brother. Leaving Sam behind didn't exactly fall under that job description in Dean's mind.

He jumped the steps of the cabin porch, not bothering to walk down them, and headed over to the Impala sullenly. Joshua's Ford was parked up behind the classic car, the driver's door open as the older hunter gathered together his own supplies.

It had snowed all morning and drifts were piled against the side of building, covering everything in a serene white blanket. Dean pulled a face. It was going to be hard enough trekking into The Hills, but with the adverse weather conditions…? It was going to make hunting this wolf a pain in the ass.

The trunk was open and John was rummaging around, shoving additional supplies into his already too full pack. His heavy leather jacket was fastened to the neck, and his jeans were tucked over the top of stout boots. His dark hair was cut short and he was currently sporting a thick beard that gave him a hardened appearance – well, more so than usual.

Dean shifted his gaze to his father as he moved towards the imposing man and dumped his duffle bag on the ground next to the rear tyre.

He let his gaze wander over the assortment of guns and knives, the surreal sight catching him off guard for a moment. Sometimes, he wondered what it would be like to have a normal life, a life where ghosts and werewolves weren't considered standard conversation.

"You packed?" John asked, briefly casting a glance at him before returning back to the arsenal hidden in the trunk.

"Ready to go when you are," Dean replied quietly, looking over his shoulder to check where the other hunter was. Joshua was now sitting in the driver's seat of his own car, one leg hanging out of the open door, rummaging in the glove compartment. Satisfied that he wouldn't be overheard, Dean turned back to John resolutely. "Dad… don't you think someone should stay with Sam?"

He wished his father had called Jim Murphy or Bobby Singer. He would have felt a lot better knowing one of them was with the kid. The fact that Sam was going to be left completely alone and suffering didn't sit well with the seventeen year old at all.

John didn't look up, and for a moment Dean wondered if he was even listening.

"I mean, he's putting on this dumb ass 'I'm ok' routine, but the kid is in bad shape. He shouldn't be left alone – not like this. What if he gets worse?" Dean let his eyes meander around the secluded landscape with a frown. "This is the back of frigging beyond. He's kinda screwed if anything happens up here."

John sighed and pulled his head out of the trunk, shutting it with a resounding _thunk. _He squinted against the glare of the suns rays on the snowy ground before focusing his hard gaze on his eldest son.

"Sam will be fine, Dean, but if we don't find Russell and Caleb…?" He broke off with a shift of his shoulders and slid his gaze towards Joshua's car. The hunter was just emerging from his vehicle, his arms wrapped around his torso in an attempt to keep warm. "I've known Josh a long time, kid. I trust him, and I like the man. He's helped me out more times than I can count, and I'm repaying that favour now."

Dean understood all too well about loyalty. He only had to look to his own small family unit to know the meaning of the word. There was nothing he wouldn't do for his brother or father – nothing. They were his world. Dean also knew his father better than anyone. There was no arguing this. Whether he wanted to go or not, this hunt was happening. Dean scrubbed a hand across his mouth, his brow pulled tightly down.

"Let's get going," John said finally, more than confirming Dean's own thoughts, "we're burning daylight."

Dean gave a curt nod of his head as his father strode over to Joshua, but his eyes gravitated towards the cabin momentarily. Sam _would_ be fine. It was just a chest infection. He _would_ get better. He didn't need a babysitter. He just needed rest.

It didn't ease his apprehension. Sam could also find trouble in an empty room.

Dean sighed resignedly, forcing his eyes from the building, and followed after the two older men.

The hike into the mountains itself was exhausting, and was made harder by the snow fall that seemed to pick up momentum the further into The Hills they got. It crunched under Dean's boots, making the climb more difficult than it should have been. By the time John called for a rest stop, Dean's legs were burning with liquid acid.

Shrugging his rucksack off his shoulders, Dean dropped it onto the ground and sank wearily on top of it. Three hours... they had been walking for three hours. It felt longer. He was cold, and tired. There was no wind, but the air was charged with a bitter chill that seemed to seep through his coat as if he wasn't even wearing it. Rubbing his hands up and down his arms, he glanced at his father and Joshua.

His father seemed unfazed by the long walk, but Joshua's cheeks were red with exertion – and probably the cold. Turner shook his legs out as he came to a stop, then pulled a bottle of water from his pack and uncapped it, taking a long swig. He offered it to John who took it with a smile.

"How much friggin' further is it?" Joshua complained. "I feel like we've been walkin' for a damn week."

The trees were tightly packed together were they had stopped and the trail they were supposed to be following was hidden underneath the white snow. Not that it made any difference. Dean knew without a shadow of a doubt that John knew exactly were they were heading.

"Missing home comforts already, princess?" Dean's smirk elicited a growl from the tall southern man.

He wasn't sure how to take the older hunter. On the one hand, he knew he was good at hunting - his father had told him as much - but his constant whining was irritating. Even so, Dean found a strange connection to the man. They had similar histories, and they had both spent their childhood being dragged across country by an obsessed driven parent. Absently, he wondered how Joshua had dealt with that. It was different for Dean - he had Sam. He could only imagine how lonely it must have been for the older hunter growing up with no one but Russell for company.

"You can't tell me this is your idea of fun, kid," Joshua shot back sourly, digging a booted foot into the snow covered ground as if it was somehow offensive.

Dean shrugged nonchalantly, but his mind turned to his younger brother. He felt uneasy leaving Sam like that – especially considering how ill the teen was. Not that Sam would admit to either him or their Dad that he was suffering. The kid took stubborn to a whole other level. Sometimes Dean found it hard to say who was more pigheaded - his father or his brother. It was a close call.

"Russell's a lunatic," Joshua muttered irritably, holding a hand out to catch the snow flakes that were falling steadily from the sky. "Who in the hell goes hunting in this friggin' weather?"

"You finished complaining?" John asked mildly, but there was a hard look in his eyes. Dean understood that look. He'd had it directed at himself over the years. It was one that said stop whining and get on with it. Frankly, Dean agreed with John. They were only out here because of Joshua. He would have rather been back at the cabin with his brother.

Joshua let out a long suffering breath. "Christ, Johnny, you ain't tellin' me that you don't wanna throttle the pair of them? I mean, Russell, I can understand actin' like an ass – he's pretty much got ass down to a T - but Caleb…? I thought the man had more damn sense."

John scrubbed a hand over his bearded chin, pulling a face. "Caleb's good at this, Josh. Your father is in good hands – at least be thankful for that small mercy."

The demonologist scowled, but seemingly deflated under John's words. "Any idea how in the hell we're supposed to hunt this thing?"

"Carefully," John said wryly, handing the recapped bottle of water back to Turner. "This isn't going to be easy."

Joshua snorted. "Like I expected it to be."

"You sure this is a simple case of werewolf?" Dean asked, his mind wandering back to what Sam had said.

His kid brother might have been young, but he was clever as hell. Dean had seen Sam pull some astounding stuff out when they were researching, stuff that men twice his age wouldn't be smart enough to figure out. The kid was a frigging genius and his protestations that something wasn't right had the teen worrying.

John slid his gaze towards his eldest son, his face impassive.

"It's a wolf, Dean," was all he said, but his tone told the young hunter that question time was over.

"The sun will be going down in a few hours," John glanced at the sky, "we need to keep moving if we're going to reach them by tomorrow."

Letting out a long sigh, Dean rose to his feet a beat behind his father and swung his bag back onto his shoulders, securing the straps in place. As he made to step forward, something caught his attention. A stray noise, a movement - he wasn't sure, but the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Sharp green eyes flicked around the dense wooded area, a sense of unease weighing heavily on him. Dean wasn't sure what the hell it was, perhaps it was nothing more than paranoia, perhaps it was something more. Even so, he recognised the sensation after a moment.

He was being watched.

His gaze shifted again, his eyes seeking out what had caused such a feeling, but everything was still – too still in fact.

"Dean?"

He glanced over his shoulder and shrugged at his father's questioning look.

"Thought I heard something," Dean replied by way of explanation. John's own gaze swept around the area, but Dean was starting to wonder if he had imagined it.

John evidently shared the same sentiment. "Probably just a deer or something."

Dean nodded in agreement, and followed after his father and Joshua. Yet the feeling of being watched did not leave him.

* * *

Sam had watched his brother go with a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't say why, but something about this hunt just felt… wrong. Very wrong. Sam's instincts were screaming at him, and that was enough to make him disregard anything John had said to him.

He took a quick shower, ignoring how much the water prickled his skin, ignoring the tremble in his legs from standing up. He figured going into town looking one step from a vagrant was only going to draw attention to himself – attention that he didn't need. Wandering around alone was bound to do that anyway and for once Sam resented the fact he was short for reasons other than his brother's constant teasing. He looked every inch his twelve years.

By the time he was dressed and garbed in sufficient outdoor wear, he was exhausted. He dropped onto the edge of the couch, dragging painful breaths through his burning throat. Sam had no idea how he was going to do this, he was already sweating through the chilled tremors that were assaulting his body with renewed ferocity, and yet he had to try. He had to do something – even if it was just for his own peace of mind.

With grim determination, the boy pushed his hands underneath him and rose onto weak legs. His head spun, the room rolling around him, the walls and floors dripping into one another. Latching onto a nearby sideboard, he ducked his head, pulling air in through his nose as he tried to force the nauseous sensation down. God, he felt like shit.

It didn't deter him, though. The safety of his family was more than enough incentive to push his aching body and swirling vision aside and get moving. He had no idea why he felt so weird about this hunt, but something wasn't right, and Sam couldn't ignore that instinct. He just wished his brother had listened to his fears. He should have pushed it more, he should have made them all listen, but in all honesty, Sam couldn't even explain why he felt this way. Dean probably thought he was just throwing a tantrum over being left behind, but it was more than that. Sam couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something else going on here, and whatever it was, his father wasn't prepared for it.

Steeling himself, he took a deep breath and pushed the cabin front door open. The cold hit him like a concrete block. It was bitter and bit at the exposed skin on his hands and face with tenacity. Shivering, Sam buried his face deeper into the neckline of his coat, shoved his hands into his pockets and stepped outside.

Sam had to admit that this place was beautiful. The tranquil stillness was framed by the snowy topped peaks of the mountains themselves that rose onto the horizon like formidable sentinels. Even the chill in the air seemed to lose some of its bite in the peaceful white-blanketed landscape. He trudged through the fluffy drifts, his sneakers sinking with each step, and headed towards the town.

Soft flakes dusted the top of his shoulders, and clung to his shaggy long hair as he ducked his head, blinking the falling debris from his eyes. He was freezing. Colder than he had ever been in his entire life and after ten minutes slogging through the snow covered ground, his legs were vibrating with pain and exhaustion.

Dean had said they weren't far from Deadwood, but Sam had to wonder what his brother's idea of 'not far' consisted off. This felt like miles. Each step hurt like he had been burnt and his skin was prickling fiercely by the time the town came into view.

Deadwood itself practically thrummed with history, seeping from the old buildings so much so that if the cars and modern appliances were removed, Sam could almost imagine he was in some kind of Spaghetti western. He knew Dean would think it was geeky as hell, but Sam felt a little tingle of excitement as he walked down the main high street. This was the final resting place of Calamity Jane and Wild Bill Hickok… Smiling to himself as he imagined Dean's reaction to that little piece of information, Sam dug his hands further into his pockets and let his eyes rove around the buildings.

A number of bars and cafés lined the wide road, some with brightly coloured canopies, some with flashing neon signs that reminded Sam of a smaller scale Vegas. Most of them had names that told of the city's past and he found himself smirking as he wandered passed the _Wild Bill Bar_.

The Hills themselves were visible on the horizon, appearing between the buildings in a mixture of green and white, depending on how the snow had fallen, but the streets were surprisingly busy. A number of people moved from shop to shop, no doubt stocking up supplies for the snow storm that was coming. Sam didn't know much about this area, but he knew enough to know that the snow fall could get pretty deep in the mountains. He just prayed that his father and brother would make it back before that happened. Sleeping in a tent in minus temperatures was never going to end well. Without even worrying about the werewolf, there was the very real threat of hypothermia. Sam hoped his father had enough sense to be mindful of that.

Coming off Historic Main Street, Sam found the library just around the corner on Williams Street. It didn't look that much different from most other public buildings, and he barely glanced at the ionic columns as he climbed the steps slowly, leaning heavily on the railings.

The change in temperature within the library was such an abrupt difference from outside that Sam shivered violently, his teeth chattering together as he let his gaze meander around the inside of the building.

"You need any help, honey?"

Sam glanced around as a buxom woman in her late forties wandered over, a stack of books piled in her hands. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight braid, but a few strands had escaped and drifted across her porcelain white face. Sam gave her a full dimpled smile.

"Well, you see, I have this project I'm doing - for school…"

Within minutes he was sat in the archive section of the library, microfiche in front of him, a book of old news cuttings that hadn't made it onto the system yet next to him. God it was too easy - embarrassingly so. Sam had learnt from an early age that there wasn't much that would ever be denied to him with a flash of that smile. Add what his brother referred to as 'the puppy dog eyes of doom', and both were assured to get him pretty much anything he wanted. Only his father seemed to be immune to _that_ look.

Settling into the hard-backed chair, Sam began the arduous task of wading through old papers. He left his coat on, despite the fact the library was warm, his body chilled to the bone, shivering with each draft of air that passed as the main doors were opened.

It took him the best part of three hours, but finally he had compiled a list of potential victims and dates for the last four years. At this point he was forced to wade through the book of old cuttings.

They were slipped into plastic wallets, which made it easier to read, but his eyes were beginning to sting, wanting to close. He blinked and forced himself to continue reading. The full moon was tomorrow night. Time was something he didn't have the luxury of wasting.

Sam wasn't a stranger to researching. In the last year or so he had become instrumental in pulling together information for a number of hunts, however he usually had the help of his father or brother. Trying to make sense of what he was finding alone was exhausting and slow work. Even so, he was surprised when the brunette librarian popped her head around the stacks and informed him that she was locking up shortly. He hadn't realised it was so late.

He rifled through the pages of notes he had made, glancing at the clock. It was quarter to five. He wanted to sleep, but he forced his gritty eyes back to the hastily written scrawls. He had fifteen minutes to use the resources in the library before it closed and he intended to make use of that time.

He'd found a number of hikers that had gone missing in the last four years, and he'd also found the articles on the ones who had been mauled to death in the last six months. It was the same research the older hunters had come up with, but Sam had found something else… The library archived the local paper for the county and Sam had found a couple of articles that sounded like they could be related to their case. A town a few miles over had a string of mauled hikers turn up a year ago in similar circumstances. As he began tracking the movement of this thing, Sam realised from his notes that every six months or so this thing moved onto a new town around the Black Hills area. He also realised that the manner of deaths were different from the missing hikers around Deadwood in the last four years. Something else was going on here, but Sam couldn't put his finger on what it was.

He shifted hazel eyes to the clock and let out a weary breath. It was almost five and the last thing he wanted was the librarian to discover him rifling through old stories on murders and maulings. That kind of thing really didn't go down well with adults.

Gathering his notes, Sam folded the papers and shoved them into the inside pocket of his jacket. Once he had tidied up the table were he had been working, he left the library, sparing a wave for the librarian and started the long walk back to the cabin.

The sky was starting to darken as dusk settled around the town, stealing the last remnants of any warmth that had existed from the air. Snow was still falling, and the streets and sidewalk had completely disappeared underneath the blanket of white.

He was exhausted and his legs were a little rubbery underneath him. In fact, he was feeling hot and cold all over, all at the same time. For the hundredth time, he cursed the damn chest infection. He felt miserable. He was aching from head to foot, and his chest was so tight that by the time the cabin came into view, Sam felt as if he was breathing shards of glass.

Letting out a relieved sigh, he started towards the building, nestling further into the neckline of his coat. He just wanted to sit down. He was cold, hurting, and –thanks to the snow – wet. The Impala and Joshua's car were buried under a layer of white, as was everything else for that matter, and the ascent up the small driveway towards the porch was slow going. Slower than it should have been. The ground seemed unstable and slippery beneath his feet, and each step burnt.

The thought of his brother and father up in The Hills unprepared made his feet keep moving, despite the fact he wanted to collapse in a heap and sleep. Sam was under no allusions that there was a werewolf involved… the maulings around the full moon were all typical wolf, but there was definitely something _else_ going on. The secondary patterns of missing hikers – rather than dead hikers - suggested that much. He just wasn't sure what the hell it did suggest.

He didn't make it to the porch. He didn't even make it part way up the driveway. One minute he was stumbling forward on trembling legs towards the cabin, the next he was on the ground, his side aching. He went down hard and heavy, his elbow tingling with electricity as it slammed into the snow covered ground. Coughing weakly, Sam pressed his palms into the cold white dust and tried to push himself onto his knees. It was easier said than done. His whole body thrummed with pain. It was like he had been hit by a car, only it hurt more.

Disorientated and confused as to what had happened, Sam raised his heavy head, searching the darkness that was now fully enveloping the landscape. Unable to see what had attacked him, he forced himself off the ground, and pushed himself onto shaky legs. His jeans were soaked through, clumps of snow caked onto the knees, slowly melting into nothing more than wet patches. His legs hurt with the cold, but he ignored it, his eyes still scanning the area. There was nothing there, nothing but the slight shift of the leaves in the breeze, and the pitter-patter of falling snow. Sam's lungs ached with the need to take a breath, but he was straining his ears, trying to hear anything. His heart pounding fiercely beneath his ribs made it difficult to focus. Dean and his father had taught him to fight, had taught him what to do in an emergency, but facing some kind of supernatural attacker right now…? All that training went out of the window. He was scared and unarmed, and he wanted his family to come back and save him from whatever the hell this thing was. However that was not an option and Sam knew he was alone.

He dragged the sleeve of his coat over his face and was surprised when it came away blood stained. Gingerly, he ghosted his fingers over his cheeks and hissed. He was cut - deeply. He had no idea how it had happened, but crimson drops were staining the blanket of white beneath him. His breath was coming out in thick rags now and no amount of self-control could stop Sam's laboured breathing. He was scared, and his chest ached with each inhale. New bruises seemed to be already forming along his ribs, but Sam ignored it all. Bruised was better than the alternative.

He ran – as fast as he could manage on wobbly legs – towards the cabin. John had left weapons inside, weapons for Sam to use to protect himself. Sam wanted those weapons more than he had ever wanted anything in his entire life.

He'd barely taken three steps when he saw it.

A shadow...

He caught it in his peripheral vision, just out of sight. He shouldn't have stopped running, he should have kept going, but fear, shock and exhaustion made his legs fold beneath him like a bad hand of cards.

Sam groaned as pain splintered through his pelvis, unable to prevent the face dive into the cold snow. He tried to move, tried and failed. His entire body seemed to have stopped responding to his commands to get the hell up and move. In fact, it had stopped responding to anything. His vision fractured momentarily before flickering back online.

A snarling growl and a looming shadow over him forced his gaze upwards. Sam wished he hadn't looked. Ice, colder than the snow he was lying face down in, settled in clumps in his belly, his heart freezing in his chest.

The last thing he remembered before darkness stole him was a set of amber eyes staring into his face, and the putrid stench of rotting flesh.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN** - thanks to my beta, _Laughing_, as always. Further mistakes are definitely all mine. Big thanks to Beth for giving me my sanity back... or making insane seem normal... whichever comes first. And birthday wishes to Scullspeare. Happy birthday, my friend. :)

I've broken my damn finger and bruised my hand (who knew dishwashers had frigging teeth?), but hopefully it won't be out of action for too long. I can type, but it's slow going, so between that and an ungodly amount of hours at work (yes, apparently broken bones doesnt mean I have to stop working), the next chapter may well take a little longer than usual to get out. Sorry folks. I'll try my best to make sure there isn't an overly long wait though. :)

Dedicated to _Jenilee_.

* * *

**Chapter Four**

_**The Black Hills, South Dakota**_

_**Tues 12 March/Wed 13 March 1996**_

Darkness had settled around the area, clinging to the trees and hillside like a funeral shroud – oppressive and bleak. The black was broken up by flickering orange flames, dancing happily as they licked the thick branch John placed into the embers. It was freezing and Dean shifted closer to the fire, ignoring the fact it was practically burning the skin off his face in his attempt to get warm. He should have moved further back, but he was savouring every last ounce of heat he could get. Thankfully, it had stopped snowing, but the air still shivered with cold.

Through the canopy of dense leaves, the pregnant moon could just be seen. It was almost full, a tiny slither missing from the silver orb. Shivering, Dean pulled the heavy blanket further around his trembling frame. This sucked. Pitching the tent had been hard enough in the snow, but the thought of sleeping on the cold ground with nothing more than a sleeping bag and a groundsheet for insulation wasn't exactly filling Dean with joy.

Underneath his blanket, he was clutching his gun, his finger lax, but ready, on the trigger. Dean wasn't sure what the hell he had sensed earlier, but the feeling of being watched had set him on edge. His father had dismissed it as nothing, but Dean couldn't help but think something else was going on here.

John shifted over to the far side of the fire and sat in the doorway of the tent, his long legs pulled up to his chin, his eyes lost in the flames. He was thinking over the details of the hunt. Dean didn't need to be a mind reader to know that. He knew his father inside out. He knew how he worked, he knew the routine John followed on every hunt. He also knew John's mind never rested. You could take the man out of the Marines… but you couldn't take the Marines out of the man. John still thought like a soldier – not that Dean was complaining. It had kept their asses in one piece on more than one occasion. Dean saw more than that though. He recognised his father's regimented lifestyle was nothing more than a way of blocking out the pain of their past. Hiding behind routines and commands was easier than dealing with the shit they'd been through. Dean knew his father used hunting as an excuse to forget… well, not forget because what had happened to Mary would never be forgotten, but it gave his father something else to think about, something to release his pain into. A cause higher than his own life – probably higher than both his sons' lives.

Dean had to admit it made him feel better. Putting other families back together and saving their loved ones made Dean feel _something _other than angry. It was too easy to get swept up in the hatred and become warped by it. Hunting gave him an outlet. He figured it was the same for his father, although John was looking for answers too.

Dean wondered if John would take the supernatural world apart piece by piece until he discovered what the hell had pinned his mom to the ceiling thirteen years ago. Sometimes, he wondered if his father's crusade mattered more to him than Sam and Dean did. Not that he doubted his father loved them both - he never doubted that, not for a second - but John's obsession was consuming him – and their little family unit. He wondered if it would be at the expense of them all.

He wouldn't let that happen. Not now, not ever. His family was all Dean had and he refused to let it go. What had happened to his mom was terrible – Dean would never deny that, nor would he deny the thirst for revenge he felt at having her taken from him – but he had to wonder if it was worth it. She wasn't coming back, and Dean thought it was more important to deal with the _now_, rather than the _then_. The now was his father and brother and he would do whatever it took to keep the three of them together.

Sighing, he dragged a hand over his face before tucking it back under the blanket, resting it back on the cold barrel of the gun.

"You want some of this?" Dean glanced up as Joshua dropped down next to him, shaking with cold, his face oddly distorted in the flickering firelight. He eyed the bowl the older hunter was offering him with a puzzled frown. "Its soup – at least I think that's what it's supposed to be. Johnny tried to tell me it's nutritious, but I ain't buyin' it. It tastes like someone died in it." Josh poked the plastic spoon into the bowl and grimaced. "I think someone did."

Dean raised a brow.

"Yeah, you're really selling it to me, dude." He shook his head, his breath steaming in front of his face as he spoke. "I think I'll take a rain check. Paying homage to the porcelain god isn't my idea of fun when it involves leaves and a cold breeze."

"Missin' home comforts, princess?" Joshua threw Dean's earlier comment back at him with a smirk. The younger man rolled his eyes.

"I like to see where I'm parking my ass before I park it," Dean replied. "Besides, I'm not that big a fan of au naturel."

"I ain't exactly Jane Goodall, man." Joshua raised blue eyes to the dark sky, and sighed. The clouds had dissipated into piebald patches and hundreds of stars shimmered like pinpricks of light on a black satin backdrop. If it hadn't been so damn cold, it actually would have been a really pleasant night.

Dean glanced over his shoulder towards the tent. John was still sat in the same position, his gaze unfocused and yet seemingly preoccupied. Dean could practically hear the cogs turning in his father's head.

"You think we'll find Caleb and Russell before the full moon?" Dean found the question slipped unbidden from his lips before he could shove the words back in.

He had no idea what kind of relationship the hunter had with the older man, and he didn't want to add to the apprehension Joshua had to be feeling. Dean could imagine how he would feel if the shoe was on the other foot. He would have torn the county apart stone by stone to find his father or brother.

Joshua shifted his shoulders with nonchalance, but Dean noticed the tightness around his eyes. He was worried – and trying to hide it. "Guess that depends on Johnny's skills to track the stupid bastard down."

"Dad'll find him," Dean assured him firmly.

Joshua snorted softly, his eyes lowering to the fire.

"I don't doubt it, kid." He followed Dean's gaze, studying John for a moment. "I didn't exactly call your father in on this for his damn charm and personality. Sayin' that, Johnny makes Russell look like a damn kitten."

He deposited the uneaten soup on the ground in front of his crossed legs with a final distasteful glare at it before he pulled at his own blanket, wrapping it further around his shivering frame

"You and your Dad don't get on much, huh?"

Joshua gave Dean a confused look, his brow wrinkling.

"What makes you say that?"

Dean shrugged.

"The way you talk about him."

"Who are you – Dr Phil?" The southern man raked his long hair out of his eyes and laughed under his breath, affection momentarily bleeding through his crooked smile. "Russell… he don't exactly think like normal folk, but I get it – I get _him_." His expression became distant. "He's lost everything he ever gave a shit about. Kinda makes it hard to care about your own mortality at times."

The hunter twitched uncomfortably, but he didn't need to explain further. Dean knew he was referring to the murder of his family. Taking a shuddering breath, he continued talking.

"Me and Russ, we ain't ever gonna be the Huxtable's, but he's still my father - which is the only goddamn reason I'm freezing my ass off in sub-minus temperatures in the middle of nowhere."

Dean saw the levity for what it was. Joshua didn't want to talk about this crap. He dropped the subject immediately and let out a weary breath. However, Joshua spoke before Dean could think of a way to break the tension that had settled around them, colder than the snow the layered the ground.

"You ever hunted a wolf before?"

"Nope," Dean replied. "You?"

Vampires, werewolves… they were the stuff of legends, the holy grail of the supernatural world. Dean had to admit he was a little excited at the prospect of seeing a werewolf up close and personal.

"This shit's a little far outside my jurisdiction, Dean," Joshua admitted. "Like I said, puking girls and rotating heads, I can handle. Playin' Doctor Doolittle…?" He pulled a face. "Well, I'm hopin' Johnny knows what the hell he's doin'."

"You expecting him to talk to the animals?" Dean raised a brow, favouring the demonologist with a grin.

"John? Jesus, no. He's a 'shoot now, ask questions later' kinda guy. Talkin' don't exactly feature highly in his list of priorities." Turner swivelled his gaze to the older hunter before turning back to Dean. "Why the hell d'ya think I keep him so friggin' sweet?"

Dean cast a side long glance at Turner and grunted.

"He's all bark and no bite."

Joshua flicked his brow sceptically.

"You say that kid, but I'm guessin' you ain't ever been on the receiving end of John's tongue lashings." He rubbed at his nose, sniffing. "It ain't exactly my idea of fun."

Dean shrugged. John could be cagy as hell, especially when hunting, but Dean knew he only did so to keep them safe.

"So, silver bullets really work on these things?" Joshua asked, shifting on the ground to get comfortable. It wasn't easy. Despite the blanket, and warmth from the fire, Dean could feel the cold seeping into his own legs, settling deep within the bones.

"Yeah, silver works," Dean replied softly. "About the only thing the movies got right."

It was kind of hard to watch horror and not find it funny. Dean found it ironic that people would pay money to see films that weren't realistic – or scary for that matter – considering real monsters existed.

Dean sighed and trembled against the chilled night air that seemed to caress icy fingers up his spine.

"Hope you rented that cabin for a while, dude," Dean said. "Would kind of suck if you didn't get to enjoy it – considering how much it's costing you."

The older man pulled a face. "What's more annoying is that we're sleepin' in the snow and your little brother's enjoyin' the home comforts of a hundred and fifty dollars a night luxury cabin."

"Are you still complaining?" John demanded.

Dean started. He hadn't heard his father move at all, but the older man was now stood over both him and Joshua. John gave Turner a long look before sinking down next to him, fingers extended towards the fire.

"Yeah, because you're usually sweetness and light, Johnny," Joshua replied dryly.

John shrugged, cupping his hands together and blowing on them. Dean shifted a little, unsure how to take the banter between the two men. He felt a little jealous. The two older men seemed completely at ease with one another.

"I do what has to be done."

"Just like you did what had to be done with that damn poltergeist in Tucson?" Joshua cocked his head to the side, his brow arched.

John shot the man a warning look that had Dean itching to know what the hell was going on.

"What poltergeist?" He asked, flicking his gaze between the two hunters.

"Nothing," John replied before Joshua could open his mouth, but the southern man was grinning.

"Oh, it was _nothing_? C'mon, Johnny, don't be so damn coy." Joshua's tone was serious despite the smirk that was smeared across his face.

John scowled, dragging a calloused hand over his beard. "You want to live to see twenty-seven, kid, I suggest you shut your damn mouth."

"I spend most of my days exorcisin' demons. I didn't expect to reach twenty," Joshua shrugged, "twenty-six ain't too bad for a hunter, old man."

"Josh-" John didn't bother to finish the barely veiled threat that hung in that one word.

Joshua shot John a wicked smile before turning back to Dean. "Well, you know your Daddy is a stubborn bastard. He called me in on this damn hunt – salt and burn of some pissed off granny. It shoulda been easy, but she ain't about playin' nice…"

Joshua laughed as John rolled his eyes, but Dean had stopped listening.

He wasn't sure why but his stomach clenched and an uneasy feeling settled over him. Frowning, he shifted his gaze around the clearing, but nothing moved. It was different to the sensation of being watched. It was a gut-wrenching feeling of impending disaster and he had no idea where it had come from. Suddenly, Dean wished Sam was here. He wanted nothing more than to see his kid brother in the flesh. He knew it was ridiculous because Sam was safe in the cabin, but Dean couldn't shake the feeling that his little brother was in trouble.

* * *

Sam's first waking thoughts were muddled. His head was fuzzy, his brain felt loose within his skull, and his entire left side was one big bruise.

Slowly, he prised gritty eyes open and was met with more velvet darkness. Panic settled in the base of his stomach, liquid acid churning in his guts. Where the hell was he? Why the hell was it so dark? And what… what was that _smell_? It was musty, earthy and it filtered through the stagnating air, mixing with the coppery iron stench of blood and decay.

Sam grimaced, shuttering his lids, trying to glimpse through the curtain of black, but it seemed to wind tighter around him, sucking him further into the darkness. He tried to move, but immediately regretted it. A sharp pain lanced through his torso, like an ice pick sliding between his ribs. Panting, his chest heaved as he sagged back on the cold, hard ground and sucked air in through his constricted airway. Each breath seemed to pull his chest muscles tighter until it felt as if his lungs were being crushed. He wasn't sure if it was the infection or if he was hurt. Slowly, and carefully, he raised a laden hand and ghosted fingers over his ribs.

Hissing at the contact, he winced. He was bruised – badly. He didn't think anything was broken, but it didn't mean it wasn't painful as hell. Pushing his hands underneath him, he levered himself off the ground. The sound that escaped his lips was more a whimper than a groan as he felt the ligaments and skin tighten like an elastic band being stretched too far. Making it to his knees, he squeezed his eyes shut, leaning on shaky hands to stop himself from face-diving. He had to give it to his father and brother. How the hell they managed to drag their asses around after taking a beating on a hunt, Sam had no idea. He just wanted to lie down and sleep. That wasn't an option however. Whatever had attacked him could still be around, and that was incentive enough to push his pain aside and move.

And then he heard it.

It was nothing more than a low growl, barely discernable, but it was there nevertheless. He desperately tried to see what was lurking in the shadow, but the stubborn blackness remained. He figured that whatever the hell was snarling at him wasn't exactly planning on making friends. Curling one arm around his ribs, he used the other to scoot back from whatever was hiding in the dark. He'd barely moved a couple of feet when his back hit something hard. Hands fumbling, it took him a moment to realise it was stone. A wall of stone. Cave… he was in a cave. He didn't know whether to be scared or relieved that he had figured out his location. It explained the earthy smells. He didn't even want to know what was causing the stench of decay.

"Precious…" The hissing voice, laced with sickly sweetness, had his heart skipping beats. It didn't sound friendly. "Precious one." It snarled again and Sam couldn't help the ragged breath that tore from his throat. His fear was palpable and taking over his ability to reason. All his training, all his brother's advice, all his father's instructions dribbled out of the base of his skull along with any sense. He had no idea what the hell to do.

Sam pressed against the wall, barely breathing, silencing the gasp that had moments ago escaped from his frightened lips. The thing must have known he was here – after all he had gotten to the cave somehow – but Sam wasn't about to let the thing know he was awake. Unfortunately, the thing that had attacked him had other ideas.

Orange flickered and sparked in the darkness before melting the shadows away completely, filling the space with its warm glow. Sam blinked rapidly against the stark brightness, shielding his burning eyes as they adjusted to the change in light.

He had been right about the cave. The stone walls seemed to push against the darkness of the tunnels that led off the main area themselves, sucking the air out of the atmosphere. The mouth of the cave blended into the ebony sky outside, only visible now due to the spluttering flames that were dancing in the small oil lamp that had been lit moments before.

Wondering if he had a concussion, Sam struggled to make sense of what he was seeing. The cave was filled with furniture. There was a small wooden bench and a threadbare high-backed chair. Various other mismatched pieces adorned the small space, and there was even a heavy looking fur rug covering the main floor. There were also several sheets of what looked like leather hanging from the walls. Sam wasn't really sure what they were but there were no patterns or designs on them. It was the most goddamn surreal thing he had ever seen, but Sam ignored all of it. His eyes were locked on the figure stooped over a furled legged table.

A long, leather patchwork cloak hid the bulk of her frame, tangled silver hair cascading down her back, knotted and unkempt. She was muttering something under her breath, hissing and snarling like a feral animal, but Sam couldn't hear her words. Maybe she was just crazy… a crazy old woman who lived in a cave. Ok, that was pushing it, even considering the weird shit that happened in his life. Sam was pretty sure this woman was the one who had attacked him – although there was no way in hell he was admitting to his brother that grandma got the drop on him. Dean would never let him live it down.

His entire body tingled with adrenaline and fear as he carefully climbed to his feet, ignoring the tremble in his lower limbs. One hand on the wall for support, he struggled to gain traction in his legs for a moment.

As he straightened, he got a good look at the table and wished he hadn't. His heart literally stopped and his stomach turned inside out, bile rushing up his throat. It took all the will in the world not to throw up. He had no idea how he stopped himself from doing so. On the table was…

_Shit_…

Sam gagged again, his entire body going cold.

She was… _flaying_… someone. At least Sam assumed it had been a someone; it was hard to tell. Most of the skin had been removed leaving clumps of clotted blood in its wake. Acid burnt the back of his throat as he realised what the leather on her cloak and hanging from the walls was. It was _skin_. _Human skin_. His head was rolling, his vision winking on and off as he tried to wrap his mind around what she was doing.

He had to get out of here. He had to get away from the scene he was seeing. He wanted to curl into a ball. He wanted his father and brother to save him from this… _thing_. But John and Dean weren't here, and Sam knew that his only chance of surviving was him.

The woman stopped, stilling suddenly.

"Wakes… it wakes…" She hissed excitedly, her back still to him, but she shivered with anticipation.

He could feel his heart pounding beneath his abused ribs, practically bursting out of his chest. It was loud in his own ears, thumping like a marching band, drowning out all other sounds. He flicked his gaze between the woman and the cave itself, searching for a weapon, but there was nothing he could use.

His search was halted abruptly as she twisted her neck, her body following after a moment, and turned fully towards him. If he could have sunk into the walls of the cave and disappeared, he would have done so. As it was he had nowhere to go, and nothing to do other than stare wide-eyed at her.

She was transforming before his eyes from an old woman into… _something else_, and god, she was _hideous_. Amber irises vanished and all that remained of her former appearance was the cloak and her grey hair.

One eye was now glaring at him through a milky white film, the other was sewn shut, a grotesque scar running from the temple across the lid and down the side of her long, pointed nose. Needle pointed teeth emerged from underneath thin lips, stained black, and her skin was a deep blue colour. But that wasn't the worst of it. Long metal claws jutted out from the tips of her fingers, blood dripping from the ends. Sam could see strips of flesh hanging off the knife like nails and his breakfast almost made a return visit.

Not a werewolf… _definitely_ not.

He had no idea what the hell she was, but god, he hated being right sometimes. If it would have done any good he would have cursed his father's stupidity, and his brother's ignorance.

"Bony… bony, but good skin." She stepped towards him slowly, her clawed fingers extended towards him in some kind of disturbing parody of Johnny Depp in Edward Scissorhands. "You make good."

Sam didn't bother to stick around to find out what the hell he was going to 'make good'. He picked up a nearby chair and flung it with all the strength he could muster at the thing. It hit her fully in the chest, eliciting a grunt from her. She staggered back one step, but that was all. Sam didn't care. He was too busy running.

A glancing blow caught him on the shoulder, fire erupting down his side, but he didn't stop.

The cold night air hit him like a physical blow as he barrelled out of the cave entrance and propelled forward towards freedom. The ground dropped below him into a steep incline, the snow covered ground making it difficult to keep his footing. He slid several steps, his hands lashing out to grab passing tree branches to keep his balance as he pelted down the slope, not daring to look back. His chest was aching, his entire body depleted of oxygen as he hurtled further into the darkness. His palms stung as wood cut the skin, but it was all ignored. All that mattered was putting distance between himself and the creature. All that mattered was staying alive.

His legs burnt, feeling impossibly heavy, and his breath was heaving out like a steam train trying to pick up speed, but he didn't stop running. At least he wouldn't have stopped, but something caught his ankle.

And then he was careening forward, the ground hurtling closer to his face. He threw his hands out to soften the fall, trying to roll into it, but a mixture of fatigue and surprise made his limbs uncooperative and slow to respond to his commands. Sam hit the ground hard, winded as his chest slammed into the snow covered ground. His vision rolled like he was on the waltz's and pinpricks of white light flickered behind his lids as he squeezed his eyes shut, biting back the pain. However, he barely let his body settle before he rolled onto his back, ignoring the pull on his torso and shoulder. Pain was better than the alternative. The alternative…? God, he didn't even want to think about it.

The blue-faced hag was looming over him, snarling, teeth visible even in the darkness.

"Like a chase," she practically crowed, "like a chase."

Sam backpeddled on his bottom, scrabbling in an attempt to get away from her. His mouth was impossibly dry as she matched his movement. He was screwed. Weaponless, alone… god, he was going to die. He was going to die and his brother and father had no idea this thing was out here.

"Precious thing…" the hag hissed, sliding closer to him, clawed fingers reaching for him. Sam's heart skipped a beat.

Yeah, he was so totally screwed.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN -** Firstly I fear I must apologise to my beta, Jess. I wrote a further 3000 words and pretty much changed **everything** from my first draft, but hopefully this reads better. Sorry for making you work hard for no reason. It was really appreciated. I'll send some cookies your way. Bribery gets you everywhere :) With that in mind, all mistakes in this are definitely my own. I've gone through it painstakingly line by line, but I'm sure my frazzled brain has missed some mistakes.

Secondly, sorry for the delay with this chapter. Hopefully, the colossal size of it will make up for it. My hand is healing, but it still hurts. Its not gone gangrenous and fallen off, so I take that as a sign it's on the mend. I hope I managed to reply to all your reviews on the last chapter, if not I sincerely apologise. Know that your comments were appreciated. :)

Dedicated to my wonderful friend, inspiration and chief nagging pest, Jenilee - without whom this story would never have existed.

* * *

**Chapter Five**

_**The Black Hills, South Dakota**_

_**Early Hours of Wed 13 March 1996**_

Sam understood two things.

Firstly, that monsters were real - no matter how much other people tried to deny the fact or ignore it. Secondly, that there was no such thing as _giving up_. If you still had breath in your body, you fought. And Sam could still breathe – just about.

The blue-faced hag leaned further into him, her knife-like fingers piercing the tender flesh of his thighs. He arched his back, his mouth open in a wordless scream, bucking against her suffocating weight. It was an exercise in futility, however. She didn't move a goddamn inch, and Sam's leaded limbs were tiring quickly, his movements becoming increasingly sluggish. It didn't deter him. This was a fight for survival, a fight for his life, and Sam wasn't rolling over and letting her kill him. Not like this.

He managed to find the strength to push a hand under her chin and attempted to shove her savagely away from him. In reality, all he achieved was a glancing blow, an exhausted swipe, a pitiful nudge. The creature barely noticed the action, and within a millisecond her fetid breath was hot against his cheek once more, her claws digging deeper.

Sam's legs were burning, flaring with angry, white, hot pain. A small amount of warm blood was trickling down the sides of his frigid legs, and the twelve-year-old barely managed to stifle the cry that raced up his throat, bypassing his ability to maintain control of his pain receptors. She didn't relinquish her hold as she threw her head back and let out an eerie wail that could have come right out of a horror movie.

It made his entire body go cold, icy fingers tracing up his spine. If he could have covered his ears, he would have done so. As it was, Sam wanted to curl into a ball and block the inhuman sound out. Unfortunately, he could not move, and he was a little too preoccupied with trying to stop the hag from tearing his legs off to give the matter much attention.

Aware of the fact his attempts to fight back were getting him nowhere fast, Sam frantically tried to recall his training, tried to remember all those sparring lessons with his brother that had seemed so pointless at the time.

_Pointless..._

He almost laughed, on the verge of hysterics. Right now he was clinging to those lessons with grim hopefulness, wishing he had paid more attention, wishing they could offer him the life-saving driftwood he desperately needed to stop himself from drowning in the river of defeat.

_What had Dean told him to do when facing a stronger opponent? How did you break their hold? What had he said about fighting someone bigger?_

Sam tried to drag the information out of the vaults of his mind, but he couldn't think straight. His brain was oddly absent of anything resembling a coherent thought, and the only thing running through his befuddled mind was that he was screwed. In fact, it was becoming increasingly difficult to focus on anything other than the needle pointed teeth trying to rip chunks out of his throat, and the clawed knives tearing into his thighs.

One hand still forced under the blue-faced creature's chin, holding back her razor sharp incisors, Sam tipped his head back, his neck hyper-extended to the point of being more than just uncomfortable. He shifted his gaze across the length of the snow covered ground, his heart pounding wildly beneath his abused ribs. There was no way he could unseat her using brute strength. At twelve, he was scrawny and short for his age. Not only that, but his injuries and his infection were quickly draining his energy. He couldn't fight her much longer.

Blindly, he threw his free hand out to the side of his supine body, fumbling in the murky darkness, ignoring the fact his fingers and hands were starting to go numb. Frost bite wasn't really at the forefront of his mind at the moment; staying alive was more important.

His hand ghosted over a thick, half-buried branch as the creature pressed closer against his body, sucking the last vestiges of warmth from his skin - and his soul. She was lying fully on top of him now, colder than the snow, heavier than a grown man. Her clawed nails were still pinning his thighs down, stopping him from moving. He had tried to pull free of her grip, but every shift of his legs sent an agonising wave of electric pain through his limbs. It was more than enough incentive to keep the lower half of his body immobile.

Sam's chest ached under her freezing weight, and he was struggling to pull air into his constricted lungs. The hag tilted her head to the side and barred needle pointed teeth, her smile salacious as she flicked her fat, long tongue over his cheek. Shuddering, Sam curled his fingers further around the branch, the mix of splintered wood and frosty slush burning his palm. She was tasting the blood… the blood that was running down the side of his face. The thought made him sick to his stomach.

"Precious taste," she purred, moving towards the rips in his coat were she had slashed him in the cave.

In his panicked state of mind, Sam hadn't even realised she had caught him so badly, but his coat was shredded on the left shoulder, black shiny blood soaking through the material.

He tried to twist away, comprehending what she was about to do at the last moment, repulsed by her actions. He could do nothing, however. He was her prisoner, and she was in full control of the situation. Instead, he was forced to watch with grim horror as she ran her icy, coarse tongue over the rivulets of crimson bubbling from the wound.

"Honey sweet. Good taste."

Sam tightened his grip on the branch, closing his eyes briefly as he muttered a silent prayer that this would work. It was a dirty tactic, but if it kept him alive, Sam didn't care. He didn't know what the hell else to do. At twelve-years-old he was hardly big; in fact, Dean often joked that Sam was the runt of the litter. He was always the smallest kid in his class, no matter where they moved, and he didn't have muscle on his side. Sam would rely on whatever techniques he could - even if it wasn't fighting fair.

He pulled his arm up and, with every last piece of strength he possessed, he smashed the gnarled, heavy branch into the side of her head. The reaction was instantaneous, completely surprising, and it momentarily caught the boy off guard. He hadn't expected the blow to affect her at all.

She shrieked an ear-piercing, blood-curdling sound that echoed into the darkness like the last vestige of a fatally wounded animal. Sam didn't care. It was enough - more than enough - to gain his freedom. She reared, head thrown back as knife-like hands fisted against the side of her head. Sam helped her the rest of the way, shoving her viciously off his legs, barely noticing that she crumpled at the side of him like an old rag.

Without giving his injuries a second thought, Sam rolled onto his front and pushed himself onto shaky knees. She made a last desperate attempt to keep her victim, latching her clawed finger into his coat, trying to drag him backwards. Sam had tasted freedom, tasted a second chance at life, and he wasn't ready to give that up. Numb hands fumbled with the zipper, and in a potentially lethal game of tug of war, the coat lost, half sliding, half ripping off his frame. Sam couldn't care less about the torn garment, or the fact he was now only wearing a thin t-shirt. He was alive, and more or less in one piece. In his eyes, that was nothing short of a miracle considering ten seconds earlier he had been on a one way trip to the afterlife.

Staggering drunkenly to his feet, Sam flicked his gaze over his shoulder as she howled with rage. It was enough incentive to haul ass.

He didn't know where the hell he was going, or which direction took him back to the town, back to safety; it didn't matter. The only thought in his head was putting as much distance as possible between himself and the hag; a request that he was more than happy to comply with.

His breath was ripping through his lips raggedly, his chest heaving as trees whizzed passed him in a shadowed blur. Sam may not have had strength on his side, but he could certainly run, and he was running faster than he had ever run in his entire life.

Thick branches flicked back as he pushed his way through the foliage, hostile wooden fingers trying to stop his escape. The snow beneath his feet made it difficult to gain any real speed, but Sam ploughed through the sea of white regardless, stumbling and sinking into the deep drifts. His legs hurt and his shoulder was a solid wall of pain, but he ignored it all. Running on nothing more than adrenaline, he was able, for the moment, to block all of that out. There was no way he was dying at this thing's hands, and that thought gave him the push he needed to keep going.

He had no idea how long he ran for, but finally, his exhausted legs gave out.

The rubbery limbs lost traction suddenly, folding beneath him like soggy tissue paper. Sam pitched forward, hitting the frozen ground heavily, the impact jarring his entire body. He was already soaked, his jeans clinging to him like a second skin, and his shirt was damp enough that it had stopped repelling the elements and was now acting like a huge sponge, seemingly drawing water from the air itself. The material hugged his torso, moulding to his frame like wet cellophane, cold penetrating through skin and muscle, settling deep within his bones.

As he lay in the dark, breathing in the icy snow that was inches from his face, frustrated tears brimmed in his eyes.

For the last year Sam had strove for independence, for the removal of the label of 'baby of the family'. He'd wanted to go on hunts with Dean and John; he'd wanted to feel useful. Right now, he didn't care if he never went on a hunt _ever_. Sam wanted his brother and father to appear and fix this mess. He had no idea how either of them did this. Sam was scared, tired and hurt, and the mixture of the three emotions was draining him more than his injuries or his infection. He wanted to disappear into the ground itself, praying that he wouldn't be found, praying that someone would save him. He couldn't keep fighting the creature. His strength was waning, and the blue-faced hag was too strong. His initial relief at escaping her clutches was suddenly dissipating, and fear was settling into the pit of his stomach once more. It was only a matter of time before she found him again, and Sam was too exhausted to fend her off.

Feeling useless and pathetic, Sam closed his eyes and let his aching body relax. It was all too tempting to stay in this position and sleep, and Sam was too tired and too hurt to force himself to move.

T_wo minutes._.. that was all he needed. _Just two minutes_ and then he would run again.

The crunch of snow underfoot to the left of him took that decision firmly out of his hands. Heart pounding fiercely beneath his bruised and cold ribs, Sam dragged his face across the ground, clumps of snow clinging to his skin. The moon was peeking from beneath the clouds, but it wasn't enough light to burn the shadows from the landscape and let him see what he was facing. He wasn't entirely sure if he was grateful for that or not.

Sam gave a strangled whimper as a dark figure moved towards him, melting out of the blackness like a magician's trick - now you see it, now you don't, only the other way round because with Sam's shitty luck there was no way this thing was disappearing.

He could only see legs and feet, but it didn't matter; Sam was already pushing himself onto trembling hands and knees. He might have been tired, but he was still a Winchester, and he wouldn't give up. Not while his family needed him.

A snarling, feral growl from behind him had Sam pulling his eyes from the figure and flicking his gaze over his shoulder. It was the blue-faced hag.

_Two attackers…_

The colour drained from his face, his heart spluttering over several beats. He could barely fight one, let alone two.

Like a cornered animal, Sam shifted his gaze warily, eyes flitting frantically between the creature and the shadowed figure. It was too dark to see anything other than silhouetted forms, but Sam wasn't going down without a fight. He steeled himself and took a shuddering breath. If this was how it ended, then he would give these things hell – try and take them out for his father and brother so they at least had a chance of survival. He'd go down swinging – wasn't that what Dean always said? Sam tried to draw courage from his absent brother, and readied himself for his fate, ignoring the fear that was engulfing every fibre of his body.

The hag behind him lunged. He expected to feel pain, sharp claws and smell the fetid stench of death, but it didn't quite happen that way. Simultaneously, as she moved, the sound of a gun fired over his head. Sam instinctively curled his body towards his knees, arms thrown protectively over his head.

The shriek that followed was so loud and so raw that it tore at his oversensitive nervous system, making his teeth ache and his brain reverberate in his skull. Sam fisted his hands over his ears, wanting to block the sound out, wanting her to stop.

A second shot erupted into the air, and the creature screamed again. This time she took the hint that the trigger-happy gunslinger wasn't playing games. She ran, her courage failing in the light of modern technology, her wails becoming nothing more than a distant, muted sound as she vanished into the darkness.

Sam allowed himself the briefest moment of relief. It didn't last long. He was now left with an unknown enemy, armed and potentially hostile, while Sam was injured and bone weary. He wasn't sure if he had jumped into the frying pan or was still in the fire. Either way, both scenarios ended up with being burnt.

Still on his knees, Sam's hand strayed to his shoulder, clamping over the area. It was throbbing, his entire arm tingling with pins and needles. He winced, not bothering to prevent his exhausted, heavy head from dropping onto his chest. He was bleeding. He couldn't see how badly in the cloying darkness, but he could feel the warm slickness of blood pooling behind his palm, trickling through his fingers. That in itself suggested it was more than a graze. He didn't even want to think about what shape his legs were in.

"On your feet," a voice snapped, unfamiliar and male. _Human_. Sam guessed that was a bonus, but he wasn't really sure anymore. At least this guy was less likely to make him into a fashion accessory... he hoped.

Sam raised bleary eyes in time to see a set of thick hands reaching for him. They fastened around his arms and dragged him off his knees with alarming strength. Sam struggled against the iron-clad grip, twisting and tugging in his panic, but he couldn't get free. Fatigue and pain had left him weak, and all he really managed was a lot of half-hearted flailing.

He almost rolled his eyes petulantly. Like it wasn't enough that a blue-faced grandma wanted to flay him and make him into the latest clothing line, now some guy was trying to do God knows what to him. Christ, couldn't the world cut him a goddamn break?

"Stop struggling, kid," the voice growled, but there was a hint of urgency in his tone that gave Sam pause, made him hesitant even in his hazy state of mind.

For a moment Sam merely stared at the shadowed figure, confused and unsure. His brain couldn't quite make sense of what he was saying, couldn't work out if he was trying to kill him or help him.

"Who are you?" Sam demanded, trying to sound cocky and self-assured - like he'd heard his brother do a thousand times. He didn't manage it - not that he had expected to. He could still hear the tremble in his voice, the pitiful shaking fear that refused to release its hold over him.

"She'll lick her wounds and be back. Trust me, you don't want to be here when that happens." The finality of his tone should have made Sam's heart flutter, should have elicited some kind of response, but he was too tired to weigh the severity of the stranger's words. "You stay here, kid, you'll die."

As if to accentuate the point, another piercing, shrill scream echoed through the night. It sounded close still, but she was moving deeper into The Hills, her voice becoming more quiet as she ran, no doubt returning to her lair to patch herself up before she returned for round two. Sam had no intention of being out in the open when that happened.

"You get her?" Another man, a deeper voice but human too, moved through the shadows, melting out of the trees in a similar fashion as the first man had.

Sam's chest knotted painfully, his fear jumping up another notch. He knew he should have been running, but he couldn't make his brain and feet co-ordinate. Rooted to the spot, his hazel eyes scanned the oppressive darkness, terror rolling over him in heavy squalls.

The man in front of him snorted, hands still fisted into Sam's wet t-shirt. It was the only reason Sam was on his feet at all. "I'm not completely useless, kid. I was doin' this shit when you were still in friggin' diapers. One shot… she ran like a friggin' coward."

"If you are so adept, then why on earth am I freezing my ass off in the middle of nowhere?" The newcomer demanded tersely. "Shit, it's darker than a Black Hole out here."

Sam heard the distinctive rustle of material from the newcomer's direction as he searched his belongings for something. The boy didn't care what he was looking for; it was taking all of his energy to stop his heavy legs folding beneath him.

"Save your _Star Wars_ trivia for someone who gives a crap, Dr Spock," the man holding Sam growled.

"It's physics, asshole, and Spock was _Star Trek_ – not _Star Wars_."

"You're one weird sonofabitch."

"Pot and kettle spring to mind, man."

The figure tightened his grip, hauling Sam back onto his feet as his knees almost grazed the ground.

"Stand up straight, kid." Sam almost laughed. Yeah, because he hadn't tried that already.

A beam of silver light lit up the trees, casting eerie dancing shadows beyond its reach. The aggressive clawed branches of the trees suddenly seemed less dangerous, the darkness less scary as the landscape showed its true form. Sam didn't want to see his attackers and so he lowered his gaze.

"You picking up strays now, Russ?"

"Picked up you, didn't I?" The man holding Sam snapped.

"Actually, I agreed to come with you on this crazy assed camping trip. I should have told you to shove it."

The newcomer was stood directly in front of Sam now, the flashlight beam roving over the torn and bloody kid barely holding onto consciousness.

"Holy shit…" the man murmured. "Sammy Winchester?"

At his name, Sam blinked, raising his head. He should have found it weird that this guy knew his name, but Sam just wanted to lie down and sleep. He tried to squint passed the beam, half-heartedly attempting to see who the mysterious stranger was, but the man was dark behind it.

"Winchester?" The man holding Sam upright was saying, his gaze transfixed on the short kid in front of him. "As in _John_ Winchester?" His voice was deep and gruff, hardly portraying friendliness.

"One and the same," the second man muttered, moving closer to Sam. "Hey, kiddo, what are you doing in the middle of the woods? You and your brother haven't joined the Boy Scouts, have you?"

Sam snorted sluggishly, his eyes wanting to slip shut of their own volition. His entire body was trembling with cold, and yet his skin felt like it was on fire. The wet shirt plastered to his chest wasn't exactly helping the matter, making his skin prickle angrily. Sam couldn't discern between his injuries and his infection. Were his legs hurting because he had a fever - or because grandma had tried to turn him into a shish kebab? Not that it mattered what the cause was, Sam just wanted the cure.

"Hey, Sam?" The man tried again, "what you doing out here?"

"W-what?" Sam wasn't sure how these men knew his father, or who these men were. He was confused, and his brain wasn't really functioning the way it should be. He couldn't make sense of the events unfolding in front of him.

"Sam? Look at me." The twelve-year-old complied, raising heavy lidded eyes towards the figure. It took his addled brain a moment to connect the dots and recognise the figure in front of him.

"C-Caleb?" Sam tried to keep his emotions under check, but his relief was overwhelming. Salvation had never tasted so good.

"In the flesh."

Sam wanted to laugh, feeling a little hysterical, wondering if he was imagining the familiar man, if all of this was in his head.

"You real?" The question slipped unbidden from barely parted lips, his brain to mouth filter on vacation.

"Yeah, Sam, I'm real." Caleb moved behind Russ, rummaging in his backpack for a moment.

When he stepped around the man he was clutching a small three-legged fold-down camping stool. He opened it out behind Sam. "Russell, sit him down before he face plants."

Sam was gently lowered onto the stool, his legs trembling at the change in altitude. The chair had no back, in fact it was nothing more than a square of material pulled between three two-foot long legs, but Russell's strong hand in between Sam's shoulder blades kept him upright, his other was clutching the shotgun he had fired at the hag. The weapon reassured Sam that he was – for the moment at least – safe.

The arms dealer handed his flashlight to the other man and crouched in front of Sam, seizing the sides of his face with gloved hands.

"Shit, kid, what the hell are you doing out here?"

Sam shivered, glancing up at the silhouetted familiar frame. He didn't even know where 'here' was. He was grateful when the older man answered for him.

"She was tryin' to make him into her next goddamn rug."

"Christ, Russell," Caleb snapped, his eyes flashing with irritation. "Tact just bypasses you completely, doesn't it?"

Russell shrugged. "Life's too short for bullshit."

Sam was starting to push through the fog clinging to his brain, was starting to make sense of the situation. He wasn't sure if he found it ironic or just plain funny that he had found Russell and Caleb before his father. Not that John would be pleased Sam was running around The Hills. His express command had been to stay in the cabin. The fact he hadn't exactly had much choice in the matter wouldn't count for a lot. John would, no doubt, find a way to make this whole mess Sam's fault. He'd disobeyed orders; forget the fact that a homicidal, cannibalistic creature had dragged him into the woods to eat and flay him. John wouldn't take excuses.

"You'd probably live a lot longer if you kept your mouth shut," Caleb deadpanned, his eyes still roving over Sam's face.

Russell must have been in his fifties, possibly older, Sam wasn't sure and it was too hard to tell in the fragmented light. His face was heavily lined with crow's feet and webs, and his dark hair was flecked with grey, receding a little at the temples. He was tall, broad shouldered and formidable looking; a man shaped tank. He looked a lot like Joshua apart from his colouring, but his tongue was a lot sharper than the twenty-six year old southern man.

Caleb, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. He hadn't changed much since the last time Sam had seen him. He looked older and more careworn, but he was as tall and broad as Sam remembered. The hood of his coat was pulled up, hiding his usually shaved head. He looked like a convict, an image only removed when he opened his mouth. Caleb was well spoken, and clever as hell. Sam knew he had studied at Yale, had a sack full of qualifications to his name, and, surprisingly, a pretty well paid job. He did something with weapons designs, selling his inventions to the US Army - amongst others. John got the majority of his arsenal from the man - as did most of the hunting world.

Sam couldn't believe he had found them – or rather they had found him. Not that it made a jot of difference. Saved was saved, and Sam had never been so relieved, so grateful to be saved in his entire life. It wasn't his brother and father, but hell, it would suffice.

Caleb grunted irritably at Russell, but kept his attention on Sam, wincing as his gaze halted near his temple. Sam curled his fingers into Caleb's jacket, not willing to let him go. He couldn't believe the man was here.

"Hey, Sammy, don't zone out on me."

Sam blinked and attempted to focus on the man's face.

"Sorry," he muttered groggily.

"Just keep your eyes on my face, ok?"

Sam nodded slowly, careful not to rattle his brains too much; his head was already aching.

"What's wrong with the kid?" Russell asked.

"Nothing we can't fix, right Sam?" Caleb said softly, injecting reassurance into his voice, but Sam didn't fail to notice the slight tightness in the man's brow. He was more worried than he was letting on. "You hurt anywhere else?"

"My shoulder… legs… Got a chest infection too," Sam responded, a little embarrassed by the wretched tone in his voice.

"One problem at a time, little man. Where is John?" Caleb asked as he gently tipped Sam's head back. "Russ, light."

The older man grumbled something under his breath about _bossy assholes,_ but complied, shining the light on Sam so that the arms dealer could see what he was doing.

"Dad, Dean and Josh are in The Hills – looking for you two," Sam swallowed thickly. His relief at finding help when he had seriously considered the fact he was a goner wasn't doing much for his injured body. Adrenaline had fled, leaving him feeling every ache, bump, bruise and cut afresh.

"What?" Russell snapped, his hands tightening around the shotgun he was holding. "What the hell are they doin' up here?"

"Josh's worried 'bout you," Sam murmured, a little afraid of the gruff older man. Everything seemed to piss him off.

Russell snorted. "Typical! It's bad enough you don't have any goddamn faith in me, Miller, but now my own son thinks I'm friggin' useless."

Caleb glanced over Sam's head at Russell. "You're a grumpy sonofabitch, you know that?"

Shrugging his rucksack off his back, Caleb rummaged through it and pulled out a small first aid kit, opening it out on the snow covered ground. He pulled his gloves off with his teeth before he probed the wound to Sam's temple, eliciting a hiss of pain from the boy. It stung badly, flaring angrily at the touch.

"Sorry, kiddo," Caleb muttered, "I've got to clean this. Your Dad will tear me a new one if I leave you bleeding all over the place."

"So why exactly is my goddamn son up here?" Russell demanded.

"Thought you were in trouble," Sam replied, grimacing as Caleb cleaned and began to pack the wound.

"I taught that boy all he knows, and he still thinks I'm a goddamn rookie."

Caleb paused mid-ministration, his eyes hard. "You think you can actually shut your mouth for two minute, Russ? Your constant moaning is giving me a headache."

Sam couldn't see the older man's reaction, but he could practically visualise the expression marring his face at Caleb's words. The arm's dealer barely gave Turner a second glance, his attention already back on Sam.

"It's not too deep," Caleb said after a moment, letting out a long breath as he folded a piece of gauze in half, pushing it against the cut. "It won't even need stitches. Head wounds always look worse than they are." He pressed Sam's hand over it, securing it in place as he reached into the kit for the surgical tape. "What about your shoulder?" he asked as his continued his treatment of the young boy.

"I don't mean to piss on your parade, Florence," Russell said, "but can't you hurry this up? In case you've forgotten there's a friggin' dangerous predator out there baying for blood."

Caleb ignored him, rolling his eyes over dramatically. "Let me see, Sam."

The twelve-year-old hadn't realised his hand was still clamped on the joint, and was a little surprised at the white-knuckled grip he was maintaining.

"I'll be careful," Caleb promised when Sam showed no sign of relinquishing his hold.

Gently, Caleb peeled his hand away. The boy hissed at the movement, fire ripping through the joint. He wanted to suck it up in true Winchester fashion, but the entire area throbbed. Sam pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and breathed through his nose, trying to control the pain that was flaring up his arm and side.

Morbid curiosity had Sam's gaze lowering to his torn shirt. Even in the small beam of light he could tell it was a mess. The shirt was saturated with a mixture of fresh and dried blood and the flesh was torn in ragged strips. She had only hit him with a glancing blow in the cave. He didn't even want to think how much worse his shoulder would have been if she had managed to catch him fully. He winced, forcing the urge to vomit down. He'd seen his father and brother injured in the past, but seeing his own tattered flesh made his vision roll. It was the most surreal – and disturbing - thing he'd ever seen.

Carefully, Caleb prised the wet material from the cuts, the fabric sticking to the clotted fleshy gashes. Sam bit on his lip as he finally freed the wound from the shirt with precision and pulled it over the young boy's head, discarding it on the ground. In his panic Sam had barely given his shoulder or head a second thought, but now that his adrenaline levels were empty, the limb felt hot and painful, and his head throbbed.

"It's not too bad…" Caleb murmured reassuringly. "You'll have one hell of a scar, but girls apparently dig scars - at least that's what your brother says. Personally, I'm not convinced that works. Brains, Sammy, that's what girls want. Smart assed geeky guys who won't cheat on them with their best friend."

Sam wasn't sure if Caleb was talking to comfort himself or Sam anymore. He couldn't focus properly on what the man was saying so he fell silent, fighting the urge to close his eyes.

Caleb picked up another roll of gauze from the kit and pulled the outer packaging off.

"So you want to tell me why your Dad is here like the cavalry?" Caleb asked as he worked.

"Joshua thought Russell was up here alone," Sam said between shivers, his teeth chattering as the cold air clung to his bare chest. "They think they're hunting a wolf." It seemed important to tell him that, to let the man know that they were running on bad intel.

Caleb grunted.

"Oh, it's a wolf all right - at least one of the things we're hunting is."

Sam frowned deeply, struggling to make sense of the sour words, wincing as Caleb pressed the gauze firmly against his shoulder. "One of the things?"

It was one thing suspecting it, but having it confirmed by a seasoned hunter was something else entirely. Sam wasn't sure if he was proud of his own intuition or afraid that his father had bitten off more than he could chew - both figuratively and literally.

"It's called a Black Annis," Caleb said quietly, his hands moving quickly as he dealt with the wound. "I've never heard of one this side of the Atlantic, but I'm pretty certain that's what we're dealing with."

Sam racked his brain, trying to recall if he had ever read about the creature, but he couldn't remember. If it wasn't native to America, it was likely his father hadn't mentioned it in their studies. Even if it was, Sam was having a hard time trying to make his brain function on basic tasks, let alone something complicated.

"They don't know she's here." Sam wasn't even sure his father would know what _'she'_ was.

"Yeah, we realised a little too late ourselves." Caleb glanced sullenly at Russell.

"How in the hell was I supposed to know there was more than one thing up here?" Russell snapped.

"It's called research, Russ – look into the concept," Caleb shot back.

"I did the goddamn research, jack-ass," the older man growled. "I fucking survived an attack from this wolf. I know my monsters, Miller."

Caleb sighed, the gesture laced with frustration. "If you had done the research, we wouldn't be up here facing a fully grown wolf in less than twenty-four hours and a pissed super-predator."

"What's a Black Annis?" Sam broke in before Russell could shoot his mouth off again. Their arguing was giving him a headache.

"I'm not really sure what you would classify her as," Caleb answered, as he applied the last piece of tape to the gauze on Sam's shoulder. "She's corporeal, as real as you or me, but she's a near perfect hunter, sharp, fast and lethal."

"She's been here for a while… at least four years," Sam told him, recalling the information he had found out at the library earlier.

He hadn't had a chance to look any further back than that. He wished he could have spent longer researching this thing. At least then he might have had a better idea of what they were dealing with, and he could have told Caleb more. Sam wasn't relishing the thought of running blind with this thing.

Caleb nodded slowly, roving an eye over the finished bandage. Seemingly satisfied with his handy work, he closed the first aid kit. "You do the research on this hunt, Sam?"

"Some," Sam admitted, leaving out the fact that he'd done so against his father's wishes. That tid-bit of information wasn't really necessary.

He relayed all the facts about the murders over the last six months and the disappearances going back further than that. Once he had rehashed every detail he could remember, Caleb let out a low breath, rooting in his rucksack once more.

"John should have got that the other creature wasn't a werewolf from that alone," Caleb said with an irritated snort as he pulled out a clean t-shirt. "Your old man's getting sloppy in his old age."

"From what?" Sam asked, letting the other hunter pull the dry garment over his head, wincing at the tug on his shoulder. His eyes were heavy, gritty and just about ready to close, but Caleb's ministrations stopped him from giving into that basic need to sleep.

"The fact they never found any bodies from the attacks going back four years." Caleb's lips twisted into a grim line. "Black Annis' don't leave leftovers. Werewolves are a little more picky about what they will put into their stomachs."

The arms dealer was guiding Sam's arms into a sweatshirt as he spoke. The fact he was no longer wearing wet clothes against his chest made Sam feel instantly warmer, more alert, more awake. Caleb gave him a sympathetic glance as he laid a towel from his pack on the ground.

"Jean's too, Sam. Sorry."

Sam wasn't exactly a stranger to stripping off in front of his brother and father. It was hard to live in such confined spaces and be prudish, but he was a little embarrassed at doing so in front of Caleb and Russell. He blushed, hoping the poor lighting would hide the colour in his cheeks.

"You'll feel better once you're in dry clothes," Caleb assured him. "It's too cold to be running around The Hills wet."

Knowing the man was right, Sam let the arms dealer help him onto his feet and steady him whilst he toed his sneakers off, stepping onto the towel. Even in the torch light the dried blood on his thighs was stark against his pale skin when he removed his jeans. Caleb glanced at him before lowering his gaze to the wounds.

"Jesus, Sam. Did you fight the thing bare handed or something?" Caleb quickly examined the puncture marks, trying not to touch them again when Sam flinched in pain. "Well, they aren't deep, but I'm guessing they hurt like hell anyway."

"She probably didn't want to ruin the packaging," Russell muttered. "Hard to make rugs and wall coverings if the flesh is a damn mess." Caleb shot him a dark, hard glare.

"Are you quite finished?" When the older hunter didn't speak again, Caleb returned his gaze back to Sam. "They look worse than they are, kid, but I'll bandage them anyway – just to stop infections. No need to invite trouble when we've got enough as it is."

Caleb made quick work of wrapping Sam's thighs, and within minutes he was dressed in a pair of Caleb's sweatpants, and socks. His shoes were, thankfully, dry enough to put back on. They were about the only part of his wardrobe that had managed to escape the weather.

"Better?" Caleb asked. Sam was infinitely warmer in the dry clothes, but he was still shivering. He wasn't entirely sure how long he had been exposed to the elements, but Sam's body wasn't fooled by the change of clothes. The older hunter shrugged out of his own jacket, wrapping it around Sam.

"I can't take your coat," Sam argued between trembles as Caleb secured it into place, zipping the thick parka up to his chin.

"You can, and you are." Caleb pulled another sweatshirt from his rucksack and dragged it over his own head, shrugging it into place.

"Caleb-"

"You're wounded, suffering from exposure _on top_ of a chest infection. You'll wear the damn coat, Sam."

Sam wanted to argue with him. He didn't want to take his jacket, but he was so cold that he couldn't help but snuggle into the material. Caleb closed his rucksack and swung it onto his shoulders, glancing at the ebony sky.

A piercing howl reverberated around the hillside suddenly. It sounded a fair distance away, but it still made Sam's heart freeze in his chest.

"That's our cue to get moving," Caleb murmured, settling the straps in place even as his eyes darted around the darkness.

"What about _her_?" Russell asked.

"What about her?" Caleb replied, wrapping his arm around Sam's waist and helping him onto shaky legs.

After a moment, Russell took his other side, careful to avoid Sam's injured shoulder. The change in altitude made Sam's vision wobble a little, but it righted itself after a moment.

"We're just gonna let her go?"

"Yeah, we are," Caleb said.

With the two men's help, Sam was able to gain traction in his limbs, testing his weight before he took a tentative step forward alone. Caleb hovered near his side, ready to catch him if he faltered.

"The plan was to-"

"Plans change, Russ," Caleb told him. Sam didn't fail to notice the tense bite in the man's tone.

"So what the hell are we doing now?"

"Finding your son and John."

"She'll follow us, and you know she will," Russell said quietly. Caleb shot him a glare that was colder than the snow. "I'm just saying. I'm being _practical_."

Caleb shrugged, but his shoulders were set, his jaw tightly clenched. "Screw practical. Practical has gone to hell in a hand basket."

"What's going on?" Sam asked, shifting his gaze between the two men.

Their stances were edgy. Sam was reminded of a nature programme him and Dean had watched a while back. A crocodile hiding beneath a calm lake, unseen by the bird treading the surface, oblivious of the dangers beneath it. This situation felt similar – and Sam was the bird.

"Nothing, Sam," Caleb said reassuringly, shooting a glare at the older man. "Do you have any idea where your Dad is heading?"

Sam frowned, not sure what was going on, but realising he wasn't being told everything. He was too exhausted to push the point, however, and he knew Caleb wouldn't let anything bad happen to him.

"Yeah, I know," Sam replied with a low breath. "They plotted the route before they left. I'm pretty sure I can remember the trail they were planning on taking."

"Then let's go find your old man. I don't know about you, kid, but I've had just about enough of camping as I can stand."

Sam couldn't have agreed more.

* * *

The howl that pierced the air sharply woke Dean immediately. He sat bolt upright in the tent, reaching for the gun under his pillow before he was even properly awake. Disorientated, it took him a moment to realise he was in the tent, sandwiched between his father and Joshua. It took him a second longer to figure out that the howl he had heard could not have been a werewolf. The full moon wasn't for another twenty hours or so.

A chill raced through him at the realisation.

He flicked his gaze around the black tent, trying to get his bearings, trying to see. The silver moon seemed to have vanished, probably behind the clouds, and the air was heavy with the darkness.

As his eyes adjusted, Dean noticed that John was already awake; his sleeping bag neatly laid out, indicating the older man had been awake for a while. He was sat in the open tent door, silhouetted against the sky.

"What in the hell was that?" Joshua's voice sounded scratchy and hoarse, but there was a note of fear in his tone.

Dean started. He hadn't heard the demonologist stir. He should have known Joshua would rouse. That scream was enough to wake the dead.

Dean kicked his sleeping bag off and pulled the safety back on his gun, but John held up one hand, halting Dean's actions. The shriek sounded again, reverberating around the hills, but it sounded a fair way from where they were camped – thankfully.

Dean glanced towards his father expectantly, his heart racing. John turned to face them both.

"Well," John said softly, "it's not a werewolf."


	6. Chapter 6

**AN** - Thanks to Dana and Jess for looking over this for me and making sense of my nonsensical writings. Sorry this is shorter than usual... still writing on a broken finger!

Dedicated to _Jenilee_.

I'm sure most of you are aware of the charity auction K Hanna Korossy is holding for a lady who needs a wheelchair, but today is the last day of the auction, so if you haven't checked it out today is the last chance folks. There are so many awesome writers and vidders on there, offering to create something unique for whoever wins their pennames :) So please go look, you might see someone you wish to bid on!! www (dot) the freeauction (dot) com and its under the misc section, and then in the general part. :)

* * *

**Chapter Six**

_**The Black Hills, South Dakota**_

_**Early Hours of Wed 13 March 1996**_

Dean wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh at his father's statement or scream. Either seemed viable, not to mention highly appealing at the moment.

'_It's not a werewolf…'_

Talk about stating the frigging obvious. Dean wasn't exactly an expert on werewolves, but even he had figured out that the screaming creature wasn't a wolf. He almost opened his mouth, almost let the sarcastic retort slip out, but managed to shove it back down at the last moment. Getting into a spat with his father was not a good idea – not if he wanted to see his eighteenth birthday.

Instead, Dean took solace in silence, ears strained, attempting to listen for the agonising wails that had filled the air just moments before. The two gunshots that had accompanied its shrieking had increased Dean's anxiety even further and he felt an uneasy sensation settling in the pit of his stomach.

Everything was quiet now, but there was a tenseness underneath the silence. Every minute sound had Dean on edge, made his heart beat a little faster. Even the darkness seemed more oppressive than it had before. Dean shifted his grip on the silver Beretta clutched in his right hand, reassured by the weight of it, and slid his gaze towards the shadowed form of his father.

John was still in the entrance of the tent, crouched on the balls of his feet, his left arm draped over his knee, his right hand covering his mouth. His head did not move, but Dean knew his brown eyes were scanning the hillside, looking, searching.

"What in the hell d'ya mean it's _not_ a wolf?" Joshua demanded, breaking through the stillness like a cracking whip. Inwardly, Dean groaned, knowing this was not a conversation his father was going to appreciate.

John shifted his head towards the younger hunter, his face silhouetted against the canvas of the night sky.

"Full moon isn't until tomorrow night," was the only explanation John gave. Joshua evidently wasn't happy with that response.

"I'm well aware of that, John, but if that ain't a frigging wolf, then what the _hell _is it? I ain't never heard _anything_ sound like _that_."

Dean wasn't sure if there was fear in the man's voice or merely apprehension at the unknown thing running around in the dark. It had sounded… Dean wasn't sure how to describe it, but whatever it was, it had sounded tortured. Dean had no idea what could make that kind of noise. Either way, he had to admit that he had felt scared hearing the gut-wrenching scream echoing around The Black Hills.

John spoke quietly, "A Wendigo, maybe, or a banshee. Of course, it could just be an animal."

It hadn't sounded like any animal Dean had ever heard. Joshua shared the same sentiment.

"What animal you ever heard, Johnny, that screams like that?" Joshua said, crawling out of the sleeping bag and rubbing his fingers over his eyes. Blindly, he groped for his own weapon, and was pulling back the safety catch when he spoke again. "Well, silver bullets ain't gonna work on this thing if it ain't a wolf, so these," he lifted the gun and gestured with it, "are pretty damn useless."

Even in the darkness, Dean knew John was shooting daggers at the southern hunter. Not even nightfall could cloak one of those patented looks from the esteemed John Winchester. It could probably tear through the space-time continuum.

"We're still dealing with a wolf, Josh," John snapped. "I did the leg work; I know what the hell we're involved in here."

Joshua ignored the snipe, fumbling in the darkness. After a moment there was a soft clicking sound, and the tent filled with milky light. Joshua pulled the camping lantern off the hook hanging from the roof of the tent and placed it on the ground sheet.

"Ok, but we're dealin' with something _else_ too." He grunted, raising his gaze towards John. "So you wanna tell me what the hell that _something else_ is?"

John let out a frustrated breath. "I don't know."

"Truth is we bowled into this hunt half-cocked and with substandard research," Joshua muttered irritably, dragging his rucksack towards him and pulling back the zipper.

Dean held his breath, his eyes shifting cautiously towards John. His father's expression was darker than the navy sky, his lips pulled into a tight line as he appraised the southern hunter. Dean wanted to say something, he wanted to stick up for his father, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. The fact was, they _were_ unprepared, and they _had_ come into this half-cocked – no matter what spin John tried to put on it. Sam had known there was something wrong about this hunt without even studying the background of this case in depth; John should have known better. What was worse, Sam had tried to tell him and Joshua that something else was going on and they had both dismissed every point the twelve-year-old had made. Guilt stirred deep within Dean's stomach, his jaw clenching with barely repressed guilt. He should have listened to his brother.

"I found out everything I needed to know, Joshua." It was said in a level voice, but Dean heard the bite nevertheless; barely veiled, and laced with an unspoken threat. John was nothing if not a perfectionist, and having his skills challenged wasn't something the older hunter was going to take lying down. Dean inwardly cringed, hoping Josh would have the sense to keep his mouth shut. Unfortunately, the southern man didn't seem to have that internal danger warning system.

"Yeah, well, what you '_needed_ _to know'_ left out the psychotic wailing creature of the night, John."

John growled a curse under his breath and Dean was sure he was momentarily weighing whether to punch the man or strangle him.

"You got something you want to say to me, kid, then fucking say it!" John growled.

Joshua raised his head, his dark hair failing to curtain his furious eyes. Even in the fractured lighting the rage was unmistakeable. The air in the tent seemed thinner suddenly.

"I brought you in on this hunt because you're one of the best in this field. I told you I don't know shit about huntin' in the wild! Now my father is out there, god knows where, facing this friggin' _thing_ – and don't try and tell me it's a goddamn animal, John. Russell's a damn ass, but he ain't stupid – or easily frightened enough - to waste two rounds on a something that belongs in the zoo. Kinda suggests he's running scared."

"It might not have even been your father shooting," John countered. "Don't jump to conclusions."

"I didn't jump to anything!" Joshua gave a sceptical snort. "How many assholes do you think are wanderin' around the damn wilderness in the snow tonight? The place ain't exactly burstin' with people."

"Look," John gave a frustrated sigh, "we'll figure this out, ok?"

"We need to come up with a goddamn plan, John."

"We find the others. Numbers are going to become important if we are dealing with something else."

"And how in the hell are we supposed to find them? In case you've forgotten, these hills are nearly a hundred square miles of woodland."

Scrubbing a hand over his face, John let out a weary breath. "We'll find them, Joshua, _we will_. And we'll figure out what this thing is. This hunt isn't unsalvageable. It's still fixable. Even if there is something else up here, we can still kill it."

Joshua grunted.

"You know, that almost sounded like a goddamn apology, Johnny. You've grown as a person."

John's expression was impassive, but Dean noticed the slight tightening around his father's eyes that belied his true feelings.

"I can admit when I've made a mistake, kid," he said, clenching his jaw.

"Can… just don't. I think this might be a first." Joshua brushed his dark hair off his face, tucking the poker-straight strands behind his ears. "So lets find Caleb and my father, waste whatever the hell this damn thing is, and get the hell out of The-goddamn-Hills. Dunno bout you guys, but I ain't exactly partial to this camping bullshit, and I've had about as much as I can stomach of sleeping in the frigging snow."

* * *

"Whoa, easy, Sam."

Hands tightened around Sam's waist, hoisting him back onto his feet as his heavy legs folded beneath him once more. Sam was exhausted and standing upright was taking all his energy. Not that he was doing a good job of that anyway. He'd already sagged onto the snowy ground twice in as many minutes and he was finding it increasingly difficult to get up each time it happened. The last hour or so of walking through the snow was certainly taking its toll.

His adrenaline had fled pretty quickly after the Black Annis attack, leaving Sam cold, scared, and feeling every ache anew, but Caleb had been insistent about putting distance between them and the creature. Sam had forced his pain and suffering aside and soldiered on. In all honesty, he was amazed he had stayed on his feet for that long. Each step was agony, and he was so cold he could barely feel any part of his body any more. In fact, he could barely focus on anything. Even the beam of light from the flashlight Russell was holding kept melting into a blurry white haze, and the landscape was completely lost to his fuzzy vision.

"Just get your balance," Caleb continued in a soft voice, taking most of Sam's weight as he shifted his shoulder further under Sam's armpit. The arms dealer was the only reason the twelve-year old was still upright.

Sam shifted between his aching legs, trying to find traction, but neither limb seemed willing to stay firm. His ribs were bruised, the scratches to his cheek and shoulder burned, his head wound stung and his thighs ached. He gave a tremulous shiver. His entire body was cold down to the bone and yet his skin prickled with an impossible heat. He wanted to lie down, wanted to sleep for a month, but Caleb's fixed hold made it impossible for Sam to give in to that demand.

"Caleb," Russell's voice sounded from in front of them, and Sam glanced through sweaty bangs at the older hunter, his chest aching as he took ragged breaths, coughing painfully as the cold air tickled the back of his throat. "We keep stoppin' every damn two minutes she's gonna come back and friggin' well put us on the dinner menu before we catch up with the goddamn others."

Despite that, the greying man was shrugging his rucksack off his shoulder, his gun and flashlight placed on the ground at his feet. Pulling back the zipper he dragged the small stool from his supplies and folded it down behind Sam.

"What do you propose, Russ? That we just leave him here?" Caleb snapped, still maintaining his grip on Sam.

The young boy's heart gave a tremulous twitch at thought of being left behind, to face that thing alone. He was too tired, too hurt, and too sick to fight her. He didn't _want_ to fight her. It took his fuzzy head a moment to realise it was said with sarcasm. Caleb's words, however, elicited a scowl from Turner.

"Of course not, you dumb sonuvabitch! That's not what I'm sayin' and you know it."

"Just be quiet, please," Caleb muttered, turning his attention back to Sam.

The younger boy was really struggling to keep it together. He was trying to be strong, trying not to be a burden, but he was so exhausted. His lungs were burning, and each breath was like inhaling shards of glass. Sam wasn't sure how much longer he could keep walking.

"He ok?" Russell asked finally. Sam was sure he heard veiled worry in his tone.

"No, Russell, he's not ok," Caleb bit, gently lowering Sam onto the camping stool. "The kid's hurt, freezing and fucking sick – and he's still whining a hell of a lot less than you."

Sam phased out their talking, grateful to be sat down. The instant removal of the pressure on his weary limbs was a relief. He shivered uncontrollably, his skin tingling every time the material of his borrowed shirt moved. He felt wretched, and he was uncomfortably hot underneath the chill that seemed to caress his body.

"Sam, open your eyes." Caleb's sharp tone brought Sam's eyes fluttering open. He hadn't even realised he had shut them.

"Sorry," Sam mumbled through barely parted lips.

"Just stay awake, ok? I know you're tired but you can't rest yet," Caleb replied gently, rubbing his hands up and down Sam's arms. He wasn't sure if the gesture helped or hurt him more. His skin felt so sensitive, but he could push the electric tingling sensation aside in favour of the brief moment of warmth it gave him.

"He can't keep goin' like this, Caleb," Russell said quietly, shifting his hands on the shotgun he was carrying so he could push his other hand against Sam's back, keeping him upright on the stool. "The kid needs a damn doctor."

"Do you have an MD behind your name that I'm not aware of? Or maybe a doctor hidden in your pack?" Caleb muttered derisively, pulling the first aid kit out and opening it out on the ground. "In case you haven't noticed, Russell, we're a little bit far from the nearest hospital."

"Shit, Caleb," Turner growled, "you think you could just hold off the damn sarcasm for a second?"

The arms dealer snorted. "That statement is so many levels of ironic that I don't even know where to start with it."

He had a penlight in his hand and was shining it in Sam's eyes. Blinking the brightness away Sam tried to cover his eyes, but Caleb placed a restraining hand on his arm.

"I know… I know, kiddo, but I need to check your pupils."

Sam complied, wincing at the burning sensation as the light hit the back of his eyes. It was painfully uncomfortable, and he struggled to keep the lids from closing.

"Well?" Russell demanded, his tone sharp but anxious. Sam had definitely heard apprehension in the man's voice. He frowned at that information, not entirely sure what it meant, or even if it meant anything.

"Both equal and reactive – he's not concussed. I think its exposure making him drowsy; his wounds aren't bad enough to warrant the sudden onset of narcolepsy." Caleb sighed, sinking back onto the balls of his feet, sucking thoughtfully on his bottom lip as he appraised Sam carefully. "I know you're tired, and I promise when we get out of here you can sleep all you want, but for now you need to keep walking – just a little bit further, ok?"

"Maybe we should set up camp, Caleb." Russell sounded dubious. "I mean, the kid's in bad shape and he ain't exactly gonna be able to fight if that bitch comes back."

Caleb glanced up at the sky. It was starting to lighten a little, the blackness fading into bruised purple.

"It's a couple of hours 'til sunrise," Caleb said quietly. "We just need to get some more distance between us and her before it comes up."

"Why?" Sam asked woodenly, his tongue feeling too thick. His mouth was so dry, stuffed full of cotton wool as he tried to swallow. Unable to get moisture that way he tried to wet his cracked lips to little avail. Caleb gave him a sympathetic wince before digging into his pack once more and pulling out a bottle of water.

"She sleeps through the day and hunts at night," Caleb explained as he unscrewed the cap. "She's weaker when the sun is up."

The arms dealer pushed the bottle to Sam's lips, one hand curling around his neck and helped him drink. The liquid was cold, but completely satisfying. Sam took greedy gulps, hastening to slake his thirst.

"Small sips, Sam," Caleb cautioned.

Once he had drunk enough, Caleb removed the bottle and shoved it back into his bag. Sam wetted his lips, feeling one step closer to human again.

"She comin' for me… isn't she?" Sam asked, slurring a little as he spoke, raising his gaze to the arms dealer, hoping he didn't look as scared as he felt. He wasn't an idiot; he'd figured out something was going on after the men had found him. Their clipped conversations, their guarded anxiety… Sam knew something was wrong.

Caleb licked his lips, his brow furrowing. "Sam-"

"Just tell me the truth, Caleb," Sam muttered listlessly, "I can handle it."

"Everything's going to be fine. We just need to-"

"_Caleb_." Sam put as much force behind the man's name as possible. "Please, tell me."

In truth, Sam needed to know. He had to deal with what was coming, what he was going to face. He had to somehow find the strength to be brave and not afraid. Sam was a practical thinker; he liked to have all the problems laid out in front of him so he could figure out the solutions. Even in a situation were his own ass was potentially on the line, Sam still needed that knowledge.

"Caleb…" Sam repeated.

Frown deepening, Caleb ran a hand over his chin and sighed. "Yeah, Sam, she is."

"Why me?"

"She caught your scent, I guess," Caleb said slowly, his penetrating gaze locked on Sam's face. "She usually hunts kids, drags them out of their beds, right from under their parent's noses. I doubt she's had many children out here though which is why she's taken hikers in the past."

Coming across Sam must have been like finding the freaking Holy Grail for her.

"And she skins them alive?" Sam asked, unable to keep the waver out of his voice as his mind recalled the image of the flayed person in the cave. It was an image that wasn't going to leave him for a long-assed time, and Sam was sure it was going to cause more than a few nightmares over the next couple of months – well, if he lived past tonight.

Caleb pulled a face. "That's not going to happen to you," he said firmly, squeezing Sam's uninjured shoulder, trying to inject as much assurance as he could into the gesture.

Sam nodded slowly, trying to digest the information. "She can follow me, can't she?" He glanced at Joshua's father. "That's what Russell meant when he said she would come."

Even in his fuzzy mindset, Sam was still putting the pieces of the puzzle together. He wished he wasn't; the picture didn't look exactly great for him.

Caleb cursed with a scowl. "Nothing's happening to you, I promise."

"Is Dean in danger too?"

Russell snorted. "We're all in danger, sonny. This thing is hungry and she ain't exactly well stocked on snacks up here in the winter. She'll take what she can get."

"Christ, Russell!" Caleb snapped. "If you're trying to scare him, then you're doing a bang up job!"

"I'm just tellin' it how it is!" Russell ground out. "This shit ain't goin' away just because you sugar-coat it, Miller. We're up the fucking creek, and no amount of beatin' 'round the goddamn bush is gonna change that."

"How do we kill it?" Sam asked quietly, pulling his borrowed coat further around his shivering body. He had surpassed cold right now and was just numb. He didn't think he would ever get warm again.

Caleb shifted his gaze to the young boy and pulled a face. "You _don't_ kill it. You leave this to Russell and me."

What happened next was kind of a blur. Russell had fired three rounds before Sam even registered what the hell was going on.

"Sam! Look out!" Caleb yelled as Sam's head snapped up at the gunshots.

She literally came out of nowhere, snarling and hissing like a feral beast, her teeth barred. There was more shouting, but whatever was being said was drowned out by the ringing in Sam's ears. His blood was pounding through his veins, adrenaline pumping rapidly around his body. He couldn't fight her again. Not like this.

Sam barely saw the flash of blue as she lunged towards him. He flinched, too exhausted to make his body move, and too exhausted to do anything other than watch her close the gap between them. Sam anticipated the feel of her sharp claws, he expected her putrid breath against his clammy skin, but it never came.

Caleb threw himself between her and the youngest Winchester, pulling her up short. One hand latched onto her knife-like hand as she swiped at him; the other swung back and aimed a blow at her face. She took the hit full on, but barely flinched. Sam saw her claws rake down the arms dealer's side, but couldn't see how bad it was as the pair of them collapsed onto the ground, locked in a deadly battle of strength – one that Caleb was bound to lose.

Russell tried to aim the shotgun, but the rolling pair made it difficult to get a clean shot. He growled a curse, tossing the gun aside and pulled a knife seemingly from thin air. The firearm was no use in such close confines, and even Sam could tell that Caleb's movements were becoming slower. She was too strong, even for the well-muscled hunter, and he was struggling to stop her from tearing chunks out of his flesh. Sam wasn't sure how much longer he could hold out against her. Russell obviously had the same thought.

Without hesitating, the grizzled hunter thrust his blade into the Black Annis's back. She reared, screaming, her milky eyes snapping to him and clawed at the older man, missing him barely.

Sam watched in horror, transfixed by the struggle. He wanted to help, to do something… anything. There was the sound of breaking bones followed by an anguished scream from Caleb. Sam wanted to block the sound out but he couldn't move to cover his ears. He knew what she was capable of and he was terrified.

Lifting off Caleb, the Black Annis staggered to her feet, her head cocked as she appraised Russell with twisted lips. Now facing the thing alone, Russell scrabbled back from Caleb's writhing body and half-ran, half-fell towards were his shotgun lay on the ground. He almost made it, but the Black Annis moved with alarming speed. She was on him before he even got a hand to the weapon, her heavy knife-hand swiping across the back of his head. Russell went down instantly, his face planting into the snow covered ground as he lost consciousness.

Not willing to watch his friends die, Sam was moving – albeit slowly – towards Caleb's pack. He knew there were more weapons concealed within the bag, and he knew they were his only chance of survival. Unfortunately, his body had other ideas. He slid onto his knees, his legs unwilling to bear his weight as soon as he attempted to stand.

The Black Annis was on him before he even managed to rise. Her heavy frame slammed into him, pushing hard against his back, forcing his face further into the cold ground. His already hurt body didn't just jar with the force, it practically exploded with pain. The moan that escaped Sam's lips was as wild as the Black Annis's screaming. His ribs creaked under her weight, his abused lungs struggling to pull in air. Putrid breath, warm against his freezing skin, made him gag as she moved towards his ear and whispered into it.

"Mine," she hissed, "you're mine."

Sam gulped, his heart pounding beneath his ribs as she grabbed his leg and began dragging him across the ground. He kicked out pathetically, trying to unsettle her grip, but she held firm, unwilling to release him. Strength fading quickly as she pulled him further away from Russell and Caleb, Sam could do nothing but let his dizzying sight focus on the lightening sky above him. He was too tired, and his vision was wobbling too much to fight her. His entire body was screaming at him for a reprieve from his pain, but it never came. All he could do was endure each agonising bump on the ground as she dragged him deeper into the trees, her clawed fingers digging deeper into the flesh until he was sure she was touching the bone. He closed his eyes, nausea racing through him, and prayed. Prayed that he would be found, prayed that she wouldn't make him her next victim, prayed that he was dead before she tried to tear the flesh from him.

This time, Sam knew she wasn't letting him go. This time, she intended to see her plan through, and unfortunately for Sam, he was a huge part of her plan.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN -** Sincerest apologies for the long delay in updating. I've just moved house, and, as you can imagine, everything has been a little crazy. Everything looked like the apocalypse hit it for about a week and a half. Anyway, it took me a while to get back into 'normal' life. Sorry.

Thanks to Dana for the beta. All further mistake be mine. :)

Dedicated to Jenilee.

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

_**The Black Hills, South Dakota**_

_**Wed 13 March 1996**_

Russell's head was pounding.

As he drifted back into consciousness, he realised he was lying face-down in the snow, breathing the cold powder that was inches from his face. The skin on his left cheek was burning and the bones in his jaw were numb with the biting cold.

Slowly, he tried to shift heavy limbs and instantly winced as a sharp pain spiked through his skull. Moving, evidently, was _not_ an option. Everything above his neck was thrumming with excruciating agony that made the world tilt around him – even with his eyes closed. Blindly, Russell carefully probed his head with fumbling fingers and was unsurprised when he felt something matted into his hair.

_Blood_.

Frowning, he ghosted over the gash, air hissing through his teeth as he touched the sensitive broken skin and let out a small sigh of relief. Thick clots of blood were easily identifiable underneath his fingers, but he couldn't feel anything warm or slick. The wound hurt like a bitch, but at least he was no longer bleeding. The fact his head felt like it was spinning on his shoulders suggested he was concussed, but at least it was still attached.

Certain that his brain wasn't about to dribble out of his head, Russell shifted slightly on the ground, attempting to find the strength to move. His body didn't want to cooperate, however. He barely managed a feeble tremor in his arms before his face was crushed back into the snow once more.

_What the hell had that bitch done to him? _

The last thing he remembered was the Black Annis coming at him… and… and Caleb…

_Shit_.

He forced his eyes open, only managing to prise one lid open to half-mast and slid it frantically around the clearing.

Dawn was rapidly approaching, the sky a murky blend of bruised reds and light blues as the pale sun peeked from behind the rolling hills. Grimacing, Russell forced his hands underneath him and pushed himself up on shaky arms, snow crunching beneath his weight as he managed to get onto his knees.

His body instantly listed to the side with the change of altitude and he had to dig his palms into the snowy ground to keep himself upright. Closing his eyes as the world tilted around him, Russell took a clipped breath and swallowed the bile that was threatening to erupt up his throat.

"R- Russ?"

Blinking the haziness from his sight, the older hunter slowly rolled his eyes towards the voice. Like a fog lifting from open fields, things gradually came back into focus. Russell wished they hadn't.

There was blood in the snow. It reminded him of red roses against white porcelain, and it sent a chill colder than the elements racing through him.

Following the macabre trail, Russell's gaze finally came to rest on a figure slumped against a large tree trunk. Even with his fragmented vision he recognised the man.

"Caleb…" He barely breathed the arms dealers' name, fear and panic settling in icy chunks in his belly.

Russell staggered to his feet, half-running, half-stumbling towards his downed friend. He had no idea how he managed to move, let alone run, but somehow he did both. His heart was thrumming frantically beneath his ribs, his head rolling as he sank onto his knees next to Caleb.

Russell roved his eyes over the man, trying to triage his injuries, but everything was swimming around him, making it difficult to focus on anything for too long. He shuttered his lids, trying to clear the haze, and finally, after a moment, it cleared enough for him to get a good look at his friend.

The shaved-headed man looked like shit. He was sitting up, his back resting against the trunk, his legs thrown haphazardly in front of him. From the marks in the snow, it looked as if the man had dragged himself across the ground before coming to rest here. Caleb's skin was pallid and clammy; his sweatshirt was also torn on the left side where she had gotten a swipe in. Small nicks and cuts marred his face and neck, none of which were serious, but they looked nasty – and painful.

Without waiting for an invitation, Russell pushed the hem of the hooded sweatshirt up and probed the gashes on Caleb's side, ignoring the sharp intake of breath from the younger man. They were deep and they were bleeding profusely, blood bubbling from the wounds like a mini-fountain.

"Where else you hurt?" Russell croaked, ignoring the kid's pitiful attempt to bat his hands away as he applied firm pressure to his side. Blood pooled behind his palms and trickled between his fingers, but Russell barely gave it a glance as his mind raced. This was bad. In fact, he wasn't really sure how it could get much worse.

"My… my leg…" Caleb's face contorted into an agonised grimace as he let out a low, shaky breath that sounded more like an aborted attempt to drag air into whichever lung would take it. Neither sounded willing.

"Hold here," Russell ordered firmly. Pulling the younger man's hand over to his side, Russell pushed it onto the wound harshly.

"_Shit, Russell,"_ Caleb hissed between clenched teeth.

Russell murmured an apology. He didn't mean to hurt the kid, but his own shaking limbs and apprehension were making it difficult to maintain any kind of control over his motor functions. He was as clumsy as a newborn foal on spindled-legs.

Dragging his hand over his temple, ignoring the bloodied smear it left in its wake, Russell grimaced. The wound to Caleb's side was bad, but his leg was a frigging disaster.

His jeans were ripped, tattered navy-blue material frayed and ragged, and there was a dark stain from the base of his kneecap stretching all the way to his ankle.

It was blood – and there was a hell of a lot of it. Russell barely managed to suppress the dour expression that was trying to crawl across his face. He didn't need to let the kid know how fucking bad this was, but he felt all control of the situation slipping through his fingers.

Carefully, ignoring the tremble in his hands, Russell peeled back the tear in Caleb's pants and glimpsed the lower leg. He didn't need to do more than a quick scan; he could tell instantly it was broken. The limb was oddly distorted and swollen like a balloon.

"Well, I don't think you're gonna be walkin' out of here," Russell muttered sourly.

This complicated matters a hell of a lot. The Black Annis was frigging homicidal and hungry; Caleb's injury made it a lot easier for the bitch to put them both on the menu. In all honesty, Russell wasn't entirely convinced he could fight her in his state either. His vision was still wobbling and his head felt stuffed with straw.

Glancing over his shoulder at the blood spattered snow, Russell's body tensed of its own volition. Even in his worry for his friend, Russell hadn't failed to notice the absence of John Winchesters youngest son, Sam. He didn't want to think worst case scenarios, but Russell was a realist. He'd dealt with too much shit over the years not to be. He knew the kid's absence meant one thing; that bitch had him.

He frowned, returning his attention back to the injured man before him. Caleb needed a doctor, but Sam…?

Russ didn't know what the hell to do. He couldn't leave his friend, but he wasn't willing to leave John's boy to face that thing alone either.

"You couldn't have broken a friggin' arm, could you?" Russell muttered as he scanned the clearing for their packs.

Locating Caleb's rucksack a short distance from where the man himself was slumped against the tree, Russ staggered to his feet and grabbed the strap and dragged it across the ground. His own bag was as absent as John's youngest son.

"You're all heart," Caleb murmured back, but his voice was apathetic. It was enough to bring Russell's attention back to the younger man.

His lids had slid shut and he was shaking visibly. Russell scrubbed a hand over his mouth, praying that Caleb was simply cold and not in shock. Shock wasn't something Russell could deal with easily out here. Caleb needed intravenous fluids, a blood transfusion, an orthopaedic surgeon and probably a laparotomy. None of which Russell could offer the arms dealer.

"Hey," Russell sank onto his knees next to Caleb once more and patted his face, "eyes open, asshole. You ain't in that fancy-assed house of yours now, and we've got work to do. No sleepin' on the damn job."

Caleb pried his eyes open, his lethargic gaze withering as Russell removed his jacket, draping it over the younger man's torso. The chilly air hit him like a house falling onto his chest and, for a moment, Russell's breath actually caught in his throat. When he finally was able to take a lungful of air, his entire respiratory system seemed to splutter momentarily before he was able to pull in a proper breath. The action left him dizzy, but Russell shook himself physically, pushing it from his brain. He didn't have time to play the wounded solider.

"Your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired, Turner." Caleb's words slurred together, but Russell didn't give a shit. Slurring was a hell of a lot better than the alternative.

"Yeah, well, you ain't exactly sweetness and light yourself," Russell replied dryly, pulling the first aid kit out of the arms dealers' rucksack. He was grateful that Caleb was biting back. At least if he was sniping then there was hope the man was ok. Sniping implied that Caleb was still capable of coherent thoughts.

"You know you're bleeding, don't you?" Caleb murmured listlessly, his heavy eyes settling on Russell's head.

"Yeah, it's just a flesh wound, kid, I'm fine."

The younger hunter arched a tight brow. "That's why you look like an extra from _Carrie_," he grunted.

Russell probed the side of his face and realised there was sticky, almost dried blood on his cheek too.

"I'm not the one whose leg looks like it went through a friggin' tree shredder," Russell said finally, not willing to get into a debate about who was hurt worse.

Pulling the gauze pack out, he carefully unravelled it and covered the gashes as best he could, taping it to the crimson stained skin.

Caleb gave him a wan smile. "It's just a flesh wound."

Snorting, the older hunter rolled his eyes. "I'll remind you about that when they're pinnin' the bone back together, huh?"

Caleb shifted glassy eyes around the trees before locking his rolling gaze back onto Russell. "Where's Sam?"

The older man didn't speak. He didn't know what to say. There was nothing either him or Caleb could have done differently, but Russell still felt responsible. They should have prevented the Black Annis from taking Sam. He'd seen too many children die over the years; from possessions, where the demon held the host too tightly, to his own children… Russell didn't want to add Sam's death to his conscience as well.

"Russell?" Caleb pressed, rheumy, pain-filled eyes searching his face for answers. "Russ, where the hell is Sam?"

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Russell tried to think of a way to soften the blow, but he'd never been any good at this sort of thing. Caleb was right, he did lack tact, and he had no idea how to deal with people.

"If you don't answer me, so help me God-" Caleb left the barely veiled threat hanging, attempting to move, struggling with uncooperative limbs. "Where is he?"

Russell frowned deeply at the feeble attempts from the man, noting just how much effort the minute movements were costing him.

"Sit goddamn still, will ya? Before you hurt your damn self." Russell said curtly, latching his hands onto the arms dealer's shoulders to prevent him from moving. Caleb still attempted to fight Russell's grip but his struggles became weaker until he finally ran out of steam, sagging back against the trunk.

"She took him, didn't she?" his body slouched exhaustedly, his tone defeated.

Russell met Caleb's half-lidded eyes unwaveringly.

"Yeah, she's got 'im," he admitted quietly.

Caleb blanched.

"We've got to find him, Russell."

Caleb tried to rise again, his arms shaking underneath him. His legs didn't even manage a twitch.

Russell placed a restraining hand on his chest, afraid Caleb would cause more harm to himself by trying to move. He didn't mention the warm slickness of blood underneath his palms that was soaking through Caleb's shredded sweatshirt. The arms dealer was already edgy enough as it was.

"One problem at a time, idiot," Russell snapped. He knew Caleb well enough to know the asshole would go after the kid, broken leg or not. He wouldn't stand a frigging chance against the Black Annis, and Russell wasn't letting anyone else die at her hands. "Let me patch your damn leg up first – before you get gangrene. Then we'll deal with Johnny's boy."

Caleb gave him a hard stare but relented, his shoulders wilting dejectedly. His skin, although already clammy, was now also covered in a sheen of perspiration from the added exertion.

Quickly, Russell found the supplies he needed in the first aid kit and carefully examined the wound. The blood was coming from a thick gash on the thigh, but it wasn't life threatening - thankfully. Russell cut through his jeans to get a better look at the injury and then bandaged the leg tentatively, trying to ignore the flinches of pain from the younger man. Once he was done, he searched for something he could use to splint the limb with. In the end it was nature that helped him out. He found a long thick branch and carefully tied it to the leg with strips of bandages.

"That should hold 'til we get back into town," Russell told him gravely. "You're gonna be off your feet for a while though. This is a pretty bad break."

Caleb frowned, running his tongue over his cracked lips. "Help me up."

Russell gave the man an incredulous stare.

"Did ya miss the part where your leg is fucking broken?"

Caleb's glare was scornful. "There's nothing wrong with my hearing, Russell."

"Yeah, well, I wish I could say the same about your goddamn brain."

"Did it slip your mind that Sam is currently playing victim to a creature that likes to flay children?"

"No offence, but what the hell _are_ you plannin' on doin'? Beatin' the bitch to death with your splint?"

The look on Caleb's face was murderous. "We really do not have time to argue this. Help… me… _up_."

No," Russell replied, shaking his head. No way in hell was he letting Caleb go after her – not in this state.

"_No?"_ There was a dangerous timbre to the arms dealers' voice, but Russell ignored it.

"You think you're gonna be any use to _anyone_?" Russell snorted. "You're a mess, kid. You couldn't fight a goddamn cold at the moment."

"So what the hell _are_ you suggesting?" Caleb demanded, irritation bleeding into his expression.

Russell didn't say anything. He knew what he had to do but he wasn't an idiot. He knew how dangerous the Black Annis was. He really couldn't think of another alternative, however. Caleb could survive his wounds until John arrived… at least he hoped he could. The odds were better for Caleb than Sam anyway and, in a game were all the hands dealt were bad ones, Russell figured it was a case of taking the lesser of two evils.

Caleb evidently realised what the older hunter was leaving unsaid. He shook his head fervently.

"No! No frigging way! You can't go after her alone, Russell! She'll kill you!"

Russell let out a frustrated breath. He had no idea why everyone suddenly thought he was incapable of taking care of himself. First Joshua, and now Caleb. It was annoying. He was hunting when the pair of them were in frigging training pants.

"I'm gonna pretend that's the shock talking," Russell muttered tetchily.

"It's called being _realistic_. She's a vicious predator, Russell."

"Well, it ain't exactly my idea of fun," the older man snapped, "but I ain't really seein' another option here, Caleb. You got another plan – and one that doesn't involve you hobbling through the goddamn wilderness – then please, by all means share it with me. That kid's got no more than a coupla hours before she starts ripping his skin off his bones and making him into the latest wall covering for whatever hole she's fucking hidin' in."

Caleb winced at the harshness of his words, but Russell didn't have time to sugar-coat this. Time was running out, and Russell knew what he had to do. He didn't have to like leaving Caleb behind, but there really wasn't any choice in the matter.

"Wait for John." Caleb made a desperate, fumbling grab for Russell's arm as the older hunter stood on unsteady legs. He glanced at the trembling fingers circling his wrist and sighed deeply.

"By that time she will have done God knows what to that boy," Russell said quietly. "Believe me, I don't like this plan, but what the hell choice do we have? She won't keep the kid alive long, and she's already got a good head start. We need to find Sam – fast." Russell paused momentarily, steeling himself for his next words. "You're just gonna slow me down and get Sam killed."

Caleb's expression was unreadable. Russell wasn't sure if he saw anger briefly flicker across his face; he suspected he had. Russ found that most people were angry with him most of the time - not that it bothered him. It was easier to deal with people that way. It stopped them from forming attachments to him and, more importantly, stopped Russell from getting close to people. He'd learnt a long time ago the heartache that came from letting people into his life.

"This is a fucking nightmare." Caleb's voice brought Russell out of his maudlin thoughts.

Russell gave him a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes as the arms dealer finally relinquished his grip on his wrist, his shaved head sinking back against the tree. Wasn't that just the understatement of the goddamn century? _A nightmare?_ This was a disaster of epic proportions.

In fact, nothing about this hunt had gone right. The wolf was going to be bad enough when the full moon finally appeared, but the added problems the Black Annis brought were nothing short of catastrophic. Russell knew they had to kill her before the wolf turned. There wasn't a chance in hell they could fight both creatures. Shit, they were barely keeping it together with just _her_. She wasn't exactly a kitten - unless she was a kitten with huge teeth and frigging claws.

"I think I can track her," Russell said, glancing up at the sky, "as long as the snow holds off."

If the storm started up again the trail would be lost beneath the new fall. Russell just hoped he could reach the boy before that happened.

Caleb's brow wrinkled pensively. "I might have an easier way. Do you have the GPS I gave you?"

Frowning, Russell rummaged in his coat pocket and pulled out the palm sized device. At the beginning of this hunt Caleb had handed him the electronic compass and tried to show him how to work the damn thing. Russell wasn't big on technology. He liked to do things old school. He liked to see and touch his surroundings. He didn't trust these new fangled computers that could do everything short of wiping your damn ass. Nevertheless, he humoured the younger man and handed the GPS to the arms dealer, crossing his arms over his chest.

"What the hell is that piece of junk gonna do?"

"Find Sam," Caleb told him softly, taking the GPS from him with a bloodied hand.

"What?" He snorted. "You programmed the kid into the machine? What did you do, _tag_ him when I wasn't looking?" Russell demanded, unable to keep the scepticism out of his voice.

Caleb raised a brow. "Don't be ridiculous." He returned his sluggish gaze to the device, pushing a couple of buttons. "I left my GPS in my jacket pocket."

"So?" Russell asked, not really following the arms dealer.

"So," Caleb said with an impatient exhale of breath, "if Sam's still wearing my coat then you should be able to track the other GPS."

Russell blinked, surprised by the revelation. "You can do that?"

"In theory."

"In theory?" Russell rolled his eyes like a petulant teen. "Theory ain't really gonna do us a lick of good here, Caleb."

"It's no different from tracking cell phone signals," Caleb replied, glancing heavenwards. "It won't work under the trees, but get a decent shot of the sky and it should point you in the right direction." He smiled suddenly, "And voila – got him."

Russell's eyes widened. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." Caleb looked so frigging smug. Russell was tempted to wipe the smirk off the man's face, but his mouth and eyes were still tight with barely veiled pain.

Instead, he let out a tired breath. He'd never understand this crap, but as long as Miller did, it didn't matter.

He took the device back from the arms dealer and frowned, his eyes moving over the electronic map and the blinking circle at the top left corner of the gadget.

"So just follow the blinking dot?"

"Yeah," Caleb swallowed hard and nodded slowly, his eyes closing momentarily. "Should lead you practically to that bitch's doorstep."

"What about Winchester and my son?"

Caleb gave him a small smile. "In my pack… there's flare guns."

John had been a marine, Russell knew that, and suspected the man was used to field work of this nature. He guessed Winchester wouldn't have a problem finding Caleb with the aid of flares.

Russell snorted. "You don't happen to have a friggin' tank in there, kid?"

"I've got a mini-RPG."

Russell didn't even want to know where the hell Caleb had gotten that from. Evidently, his work with the US military had some perks – RPGs being one.

"Ok, Rambo, you got anythin' that's a little easier to carry?"

"Got about half a dozen handguns in my pack." Caleb nodded towards the rucksack on the ground. "There's a silver barrelled gun – it's a Desert Eagle. Take that. It shoots like a rifle. It'll put a hole through that bitch the size of Texas."

Already unzipping the bag, Russell paused mid-search to give the arms dealer a long look.

"Don't mean to piss on your parade, Caleb, but I shot her with a friggin' shotgun and it didn't even dent the paintwork."

"This will," Caleb assured him. "There's additional rounds in the front pocket."

Rummaging in the bag, Russell found the described gun and rounds. He quickly loaded it, and got to his feet. He handed Caleb the rucksack, and then wrapped the arms dealers' hand around a revolver.

"Shoot anythin' that moves. I'll come back for you, Caleb." He didn't add 'I promise'. There was no need to. Russell wouldn't leave the younger hunter behind.

Caleb let his head relax against the tree, his eyes unfocused on the sky.

"Did I mention I really don't like this plan?"

Russell's lip curled upwards. "A few times." He tucked the Eagle into the back of his jeans. "Keep pressure on your side. You see blood comin' through pack some more gauze around it."

Sighing, Caleb met his gaze. "Just find Sam, Russell. I'll be fine."

Russell nodded slowly, and then, before he could change his mind about leaving his injured friend behind, he turned and started in the direction of the blinking dot on the GPS.

* * *

John had ordered the tent and their belongings to be packed up immediately. Dean had complied instantly to the request. There was no way in hell he was going to be able to sleep now anyway. The scream followed by the gunshots was enough to push any haze from his brain and put him on alert.

His father still hadn't offered any explanations about what the hell the thing was that had made that sound… and Dean wasn't even sure he wanted to know. It wasn't the stuff of nightmares, but shit, it came pretty close. It was more than enough to raise the heckles on the back of his neck anyway.

The rising sun was barely pushing any heat through the atmosphere, and Dean shivered in the early morning chill. It was frigging freezing and the several layers he was wearing didn't seem to be doing a damn thing to ward off the cold. He had hoped that walking would have made him warmer, but it hadn't. Even his sweat seemed icy against his skin.

Joshua had retreated into a sullen silence, walking some distance behind John, who had taken the lead, his hands shoved into his coat pockets. Their argument, whilst not overly serious, had left a tension that Dean was struggling to break through. Instead, the seventeen-year-old had taken Turner's approach and kept his mouth firmly shut.

They hadn't been walking long when a bright red light erupted in the lightening sky. Dean's eyes were immediately drawn to it, his brow narrowing. That sure as hell looked like a flare. He glanced towards his father who had also stopped walking.

"What was that?" Josh asked, shielding his eyes, his gaze firmly locked on the sky.

"That would be Caleb and your father," John replied softly.

Joshua pulled his eyes from the flare and directed his stare at John.

"How the hell do you know that for sure?"

"Caleb's an arms dealer, kid; you think he hasn't come up here loaded with all sorts of shit? The guy works on the side for the military; it wouldn't surprise me if he had a frigging radar system in his backpack."

Joshua merely snorted, evidently unimpressed. Dean surmised he was still pissed with the man for agreeing to help his father on this insane crusade – not that he blamed him. Dean was cold, wet, and just about as miserable as he had ever been.

"Come on, it came from this direction," John said, pushing further up the incline they were currently ascending.

They walked in the general direction of the flare for what seemed like days, but had in fact only been an hour. Legs burning with exertion, feet aching, Dean had no idea what the hell his father was following. They had taken so many twists and turns through the dense trees that Dean had lost all sense of direction. His father didn't hesitate however, and continued on sure-footed.

Another flare fired into the air suddenly, just visible through the leafy canopy. It was closer than the last one, much closer.

"How much farther?" Dean asked, unable to gauge how far away the flare was being fired.

"Not far," John replied evasively.

"Well that was specific," Dean grunted, earning a glare from his father. Not that he cared; all he could think about was his brother.

There was some kind of unknown, potentially dangerous _thing_ running around The Black Hills, and Sam was alone in the cabin. Dean wanted to tell his father to shove this hunt, he wanted nothing more than to get back to his brother and make sure he was ok. Not that his father would allow that, but Dean sometimes wondered about John's priorities. He knew the man loved both his sons, but really, it seemed like he was more willing to help out others than his own family. Sometimes, Dean felt like he and Sam got shoved on the back burner. That thought rolling around his head made him sour and sullen.

They continued walking further into The Hills, the sun rising higher on the horizon with each step they took. Dean's aching limbs wanted to fold beneath him, but he pushed on, ignoring the tremors, ignoring the acidic blood pumping through his arteries as he forced his feet to keep moving at the gruelling pace John had set.

As the trees thinned out, Dean saw the slumped figure first. He recognised Caleb immediately and was moving before he even thought about it. John and Joshua were less than a beat behind him.

Caleb was slumped against a tree wearing nothing but a hooded sweatshirt and jeans, his hand loosely covering a piece of crimson stained gauze on his side. His face was pale and clammy, and his leg had been splinted with what looked like a branch. Dean frowned at the blood on his jeans, before raising his gaze to his father. John was already carefully peeling back the material to examine the wound to his side.

"Caleb?" Dean tried, shaking the hunter gently, hoping to get some kind of response from the man.

He was grateful as hell when eyes fluttered and opened slowly to reveal glassy irises.

"Dean?" Caleb licked his lips, his lids shuttering. "That… that really you?"

"Yeah, Caleb, it's me." Dean gave him a sympathetic look as the man shifted, wincing with pain at the slight movement. "Some mess you're in."

Caleb's eyes slid shut, his ribs collapsing inwards with each laboured breath.

"Yeah, it looks worse than it is," Caleb muttered sluggishly.

"Looks pretty bad," John finally spoke having concluded his examination of Caleb's side. "What the hell did you do?"

"Got into an argument with something bigger than me," Caleb murmured, prying one eye open. "Needless to say it won."

"Where's my father?" Joshua's questioning tone startled Dean. He'd been that focused on Caleb that he had forgotten the southern hunter was even with them.

Josh was kneeling in the snow, his eyes locked on a bloodied trail that marred the white blanket. Dean hadn't noticed it before but the sight of it now made his stomach roll. _Where the hell was Russell?_

Caleb raised his head. It lolled on his shoulders slightly, like a rag doll, before he managed to find enough equilibrium to hold it upright.

"He went after the Black Annis."

John's breath hitched, but Dean had no idea what the hell a Black Annis was. He'd never even heard of one before. Clearly, Joshua knew whatever John did because his face turned whiter than the snow on the ground.

"A Black Annis?" Joshua pushed the words through seemingly unmoving lips. "You're hunting a _Black Annis_?"

"You're sure?" John asked Caleb softly. There was something in his father's tone that scared Dean. He wasn't sure what the hell it was, but Dean knew the stakes in this hunt had just risen to a whole new level; he just wasn't entirely sure why.

"Seen the bitch with my own eyes," Caleb assured him, tugging his lower lip between his teeth as John continued to ghost his fingers over his leg. "Found out the first night we came up here."

"Didn't you do any research on this damn hunt?" Josh snapped. Anger – and fear – evident in his tone.

Caleb shot him a contemptuous glare, only slightly undermined by the pained lines marring his clammy skin.

"Your father assured me he had done it," Caleb ground out. "I came into this hunt expecting to provide nothing more than the artillery. I didn't expect _her_."

Joshua snorted, his face enraged. "C'mon, dude, you know Russ. He ain't got the damn patience to research. It was lack of research that got him into this friggin' mess the first time round."

"Another reason why I took what Russell said at face value, Josh," Caleb hissed as John continued his ministrations. "Christ, Winchester, I'm kind of attached to my leg!"

"Sorry, Caleb," John rubbed a hand over his chin and sighed. "You've got a nasty break there."

"It's the only reason I'm still sitting here," Caleb said, shooting daggers at Joshua. At the demonologist's sceptical grunt Caleb's eyes flashed dangerously. "You think I'd leave Russell to face that thing alone? I'm not a coward, Josh."

"Never said you were," Joshua countered, but his tone clearly indicated otherwise.

"You didn't have to."

"Will you both shut up?" John interrupted, scowling at both men, "Arguing isn't getting us anywhere." He turned back to Caleb, ignoring the sullen glare from Joshua. "Why the hell did Russell go after this thing alone? Why didn't he wait here with you?"

Caleb's gaze instantly averted. He licked his lips, his shoulders tensing. Dean didn't have to be a mind reader to know that the arms dealer was hiding something.

"Caleb?" John's tone demanded answers.

"He didn't have a choice," Caleb responded reluctantly. "He had to go. Believe me; he didn't leave me here lightly."

"What the hell was so important that Russell left you behind, bleeding like a pig, to go hunt a psychotic hag with a penchant for removing flesh?" Joshua demanded.

Finally, Caleb raised his eyes, but it was John's gaze he met, and not Joshua's. Dean's heart seemingly froze before the arms dealer even opened his mouth. He knew instinctively that something awful had happened.

"Because…" Caleb hesitated, running his tongue over his lips, "…because she has your son, John." Caleb let out a ragged breath, swallowing hard. "She has Sam."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N** - Sorry this is a wee bit delayed. I think fate really doesn't want me to write this frigging story. Between broken bones, being forced to move house in record timing, plus all the other junk thats been going on my internet decided to die on Thursday completely, which was great. If I wasn't so stubborn I'd really take it to heart. Thanks for all the amazing reviews. Hopefully I got back to everyone before I internet up sticks and buggered off.

Thanks to Lynz for Betaing this in record time and thanks to Beth for your ongoing encouragement. It really makes me get off my lazy ass and actually do stuff. Christ, without your constant poking, I'd be twiddling my thumbs half the time. Thanks EB for going over chapters with me at stupid o'clock in the morning and helping me out of all the corners I seem to write myself into. And this is starting to read like an Oscar's acceptance speech... enjoy it anyway.

As always, this story is dedicated to _Jenilee_.

Oh and there will be _**lots**_ of swearing... and peril... plus there is talk of flaying... you have been warned. Proceed at your own risk.

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

_**The Black Hills, South Dakota**_

_**Wed 13 March 1996**_

John heard the words, heard them clearly but didn't really comprehend them at the same time.

_She has Sam…_

How the hell was that _possible_? It _wasn't_ possible, John told himself firmly. He'd left Sam in the cabin. He'd left his twelve-year-old son behind to keep him safe. There was no way in hell Sam could be in that things clutches. It just wasn't… _possible_.

He blinked, a thick fog of panic drawing over him suddenly. Chunks of ice settled in his belly, his heart spluttering over several beats before it finally seemed to quiver to a halt beneath his ribs. He'd thought he was doing what was right, what he needed to do in order to protect Sam, and yet Sam wasn't protected. In fact, Sam was up to his neck in shit – shit that could have been avoided if John had simply taken the time to drive a few hours out of his way to drop the kid off at Bobby Singer's. That thought speared through his chest painfully. God, what the _hell_ had he done?

No… Caleb must have made a mistake… he _must_ have. His entire body tingled with gut-wrenching fear, cold sweat standing out on his skin making him shiver.

It was Dean's voice that finally broke through the numbness and dragged John back to reality.

"_What?"_ His eldest son demanded, pulling away from the arms dealer and staggering to his feet.

Dean's eyes were wide and his lips were parted slightly. He looked just about as shell-shocked as John had ever seen him - not that he was dealing with the information much better. His own stomach was turning inside out, and his heart was beating so quickly, he could hear his blood pumping in his ears. He felt sick, his head rolling as the gravity of the situation sank in.

"That's not possible," Dean murmured, shaking his head fervently. Every inch of the seventeen-year-old practically vibrated with barely veiled anguish. "We left Sam in the cabin, he's safe."

There was that word again… _possible_. It wasn't really a word they associated with their lifestyle. Every day they dealt with shit that was _impossible_. It didn't make it any less real. John could see his world sliding into the mud before his very eyes and he didn't know how to fix this, he didn't know if he _could_ fix this. Was it too late already? Had John lost Mary and now Sam? The thought left him feeling empty. How much was too much? How many more people did John have to lose before the cosmos cut him a fucking break? Was he destined to be alone for the rest of his stinking existence? He dragged a hand over his chin and let out a low breath. Once again he was up shit creek and the boat was taking water fast.

"I wish to God that was the case, Dean, but it's not," Caleb replied, shifting a little with a grimace.

The man looked like shit. How the hell he was still conscious, John had no idea. His skin was pallid and clammy and he was struggling to keep his eyes at half-mast. Christ, that thing had really taken a chunk out of Caleb, and if she could do that to a fully-armed, grown man, what the hell could she do to a sick twelve-year-old?

"No," Dean growled, stepping back from the injured man. "It can't be Sam."

"I'm sorry," Caleb said softly, his head dropping back against the tree, his eyes closing momentarily as he swallowed hard, his body trembling with cold. "I wish I could tell you differently, kid."

John wanted to say something, wanted to assure his eldest that Caleb was wrong, but the grim expression on the arms dealers face told a different story, and, judging from Dean's own expression, he knew it too. Dean was many things, but naive wasn't one. He'd seen too much shit in his short life to be.

"You want to tell me how the hell my youngest son ended up with a Black Annis?" John hadn't meant to snap, hadn't meant to say anything at all in fact, but his mouth and brain didn't seem to be connected. It was easier to blame Miller than it was to deal with the fact his negligence could cost the Winchester family a lot more than they ever wanted to pay.

Caleb's glare – as John expected it would be – was withering. Even bleeding and in pain the man could still communicate pissed better than your average teenager. He rolled his sluggish gaze towards the older hunter, his eyes hard. John was pretty sure he saw hurt flash momentarily in the man's face that had nothing to do with his injuries, but it disappeared quickly.

"I was under the impression that _you_ are his father, John – not me," Caleb growled.

John scowled. His fear was growing with each second that passed and his anger at Caleb, whilst misplaced, seemed justified. He couldn't control the rage that had settled inside him and frankly, he wasn't sure he wanted to try. There was a silent relief in his anger, a brief solace that helped John to put things into perspective.

"You know how the fuck to hunt, Miller, you suddenly decide that research wasn't necessary?"

Caleb studied him for a moment, disgust washing over his face. John was sure that if Caleb had been able to get up, he would have thumped him. He probably would have done a hell of a lot of damage too - even injured. Caleb was hardly small.

"That's funny," Caleb snarled, his tone scathing, "I'm sure Sam said the same thing about you."

If Caleb hadn't been bleeding already, John would have knocked his teeth down his fucking throat. Rationally, he knew none of this shit was Caleb's fault, but the irrational part of his brain was feeding poison into his mind. He needed an outlet for all that fear and rage. What was it they said? The messenger always gets shot.

Joshua moved before John could even growl a curse, his strong arms wrapping around his torso, pulling him back from the injured arms dealer.

"I did the fucking research, Caleb," John snapped.

Caleb gave him a dark glare. "Evidently."

"You bastard!" John was moving before he even thought about it, before he even considered that Caleb was bleeding and hurt – probably bleeding and hurt trying to help his son. None of that mattered. John couldn't see past the cloud of red that had enveloped him, blocking out all ability to reason.

He didn't get far, however.

Josh shoved John savagely away as he darted towards Caleb.

"Back off, John," Joshua warned, his gaze locked on the older man. "I'm sure pummellin' Caleb will make ya feel better, Winchester, but it ain't gonna save Sam – or my damn father," the demonologist snapped. "Pull your goddamn self together and get your damn head in the game."

John opened his mouth to retort but he didn't get the chance to speak.

"Yeah, well, we wouldn't be in this frigging mess if someone had just listened to me."

Dean's voice brought all three adults eyes towards him. John recognised the tight set of the seventeen-year-old's jaw, the defiant stance, the fear barely hidden behind the tight lines of anger.

"Watch your goddamn tongue," John barked. He knew this shit was his fault; he didn't need reminding of the fact.

Dean ignored his father, his eyes firmly locked on the arms dealer.

"This _Black Annis_ – what the hell is it?"

Caleb shifted his leaded gaze towards Joshua before resting on John.

"_What is it?"_ Dean repeated, his voice crackling with obvious tension. His stance radiated his apprehension even more so.

"I don't really know," Caleb murmured. "It's some kind of corporeal creature – probably on the same scale as a Wendigo."

"Wendigos ain't even in the same league as this thing," Joshua disagreed, still stood between Caleb and John. "She's right up there with your xonan's, boggarts, monsters under the bed, kid, only she's a helluva lot more dangerous," Josh explained with a grimace, "she's fast, she's devious as hell, and –" Joshua broke off frowning.

"She likes kids," Dean finished, his jaw tightening till the muscles in his neck looked like they might snap. Dean knew more monsters than most hunters twice his age; John had taught him well, so it didn't surprise him that his eldest had put two and two together. He just wished he hadn't. The truth was not pleasant.

"Dean, we'll find him," John assured his son, not entirely sure if he believed that or not. He knew how Black Annis' worked. She would get it over with quickly. She would want the skin…

_God_, his boy's _skin_…

Nausea crept up his throat at that thought. No… failure was _not_ an option here. John would _not_ lose Sam to this creature.

"This shit is your damn fault!" Dean growled, his face filled with accusation. "I _told_ you _not_ to leave Sam alone, I told you the kid was sick, and now some freaking monster is going to do God knows what to him!"

John could take recrimination from anyone, but not from his children. He missed the days when a simple word would have them both looking at him with wide-eyed reverence. Sam… Sam was growing firmly out of hero worship, and whilst Dean still saw his father as infallible, the expression he was wearing now was disdain, and that hurt more than he wanted to admit.

"Dean, this isn't my fault-"

Dean held a hand up, cutting his father off.

"Just… _don't_. You care more about hunting than you do about us Dad, and God forbid we don't act like one of your army buddies. Sam's sick! He's _fucking_ sick! And we left him alone – alone to face this… this _thing_."

John felt his anger slipping like the side of a glacier falling into the sea. It was easy to be angry with Caleb – far too easy – but the dejected, fearful look in his young son doused all the fire in him. He'd brought his boys up to look after each other, in fact, he'd practically shoved Sam's upbringing onto Dean's lap from the night of the fire. He couldn't be angry with his eldest for acting how he had taught him to act, but it didn't make the rage directed at him any easier to deal with.

"We'll get your brother back," John muttered under his breath, scrubbing a hand over his face, but Dean wasn't ready to listen to false assurances.

"Sam told us there was something else going on up here," Dean murmured, his expression haunted. "He told us and we didn't listen."

John frowned at the words. This was the first he had heard of his son's doubts. "Sam told you that we were dealing with this thing?"

Dean snapped his gaze towards John, fire behind his normally light green eyes. "Yeah, he told me something was wrong and I didn't listen to him, and now-" Dean broke off, running his tongue over his lips. "And now he's being held by…"

John ached seeing his son so broken. He would protect them both from everything if he could, but the world did not work like that and so John had done the opposite. The best offence is a good defence, and John had trained his boys well. He didn't know what else to do. Ignorance would only lead to death. Hadn't Mary proven that? No, preparation was the key; he just hoped that he had taught his youngest enough to stay alive until they could pull him out of this shit.

"Dean, you couldn't have known this thing was a Black Annis. You couldn't have known this would happen-"

"How do you kill this thing?" Dean demanded, glancing between Caleb and Joshua, completely ignoring John.

That he could be brushed aside so easily wounded him. He wasn't ever going to win any awards for best father of the year, but he had hoped his sons would at least look at him with that wide-eyed respect for at least a little longer. The look Dean was giving him made him feel completely inadequate.

"Dean, this bitch… she ain't a walk in the damn park, you can't kill her alo-"

"This _bitch_, has my brother, Josh," Dean snapped, "and I'm not sitting by and waiting for her to-" He trailed off, unwilling to say what they were all thinking, as if speaking them gave them truth. "Just tell me."

"Fire…" Caleb answered finally, his voice thick. "She doesn't like fire… Don't know if it will kill her though."

Dean nodded, his jaw tight, his eyes resolute. As he started to move away from the three hunters, John made a grab for his arm.

"You're not going after that thing alone, Dean."

His eldest son gave him a glare that could have melted polar ice caps, shrugging out of his grasp. It was colder than the weather and sent a shiver racing up John's spine.

"We don't have time to argue this," Dean growled.

John was losing control quickly and he didn't like it. He scowled, tightening his grip on his son's arm.

"This is _not_ a discussion, Dean. It's not happening." He wouldn't risk both his sons. He wanted his eldest where he could protect him. "We'll patch Caleb up and then we'll move out to find your brother."

"Sam could be dead by then!" The finality of the words made John flinch. He closed his eyes, wishing that when he opened them he was somewhere else, his youngest son beside him, but the scene was still the same. The Black Hills felt oppressive and vast, a maze of trees and jagged rocks that served only to hide Sam from sight.

"She sleeps through the day," Joshua said quietly, "Sam'll be ok."

_Till the sun sets…_

The southern hunter didn't say the words, but he didn't have to. John heard them clearly.

Cautiously, John released his hold on Dean and held his breath, waiting to see his son's reaction. Dean didn't move, but his eyes were still dark, still accusing. With a suffering sigh, John strolled back over to Caleb and crouched beside the injured man. He'd apologise later for his behaviour. Maybe Caleb would accept it; maybe he wouldn't, either way it didn't matter. John wasn't about to let anyone die on this frigging hunt.

"How you feeling, Miller?" He asked softly, his gaze roving over the bloodied and torn clothing.

"Go find your son, John," Caleb said tiredly. "Pick me up on the way back."

John shook his head firmly. "I'm not leaving you behind, Caleb."

"Dean's right, the longer you wait the more chance that-"

John cut him off with a snarled curse. "Not happening, kid. Once the sun goes down, the Black Annis isn't the only thing out here."

Caleb winced, his eyes sliding shut. "The wolf?" John nodded grimly. "You think it will be in The Hills tonight?"

John shifted his shoulders. "I don't know, but I'm not gambling your life on it."

Straightening from his crouch, John turned to his son and Joshua.

"We need two lengths of wood and the ground sheet from the tent." Caleb couldn't walk, of that there was no doubt, but they could carry the man out of there. The marines had taught John to never leave a man behind, and it was one lesson John intended to follow.

* * *

The sun was high in the sky, just visible through the leafy canopy overhead. Despite that, there was no heat in the air, the chill still clinging to the air itself. Russell glanced at the GPS and scowled. Just follow the blinking dot; it should take you right to that bitch's doorstep…

Yeah, that might have worked if the blinking dot hadn't upped sticks and taken off. Russell shook the handset irritably, resisting the urge to sling it into the snow covered ground in a fit of rage. God, he _hated_ technology. Glancing up through the tree branches, he recalled that Caleb had said the thing needed a clear view of the sky to work… which might have been ok if they weren't in the goddamn woods. Closing his eyes, Russell counted backwards from ten in his head, trying to rein his emotions in. he should have done this the old school way – tracking. Find the markings, follow them, simple. More time consuming no doubt – although at the moment that was debateable - but definitely simpler. Blinking dots and clear skies was just a little too finicky for Russell's liking.

After a moment, he continued walking forward, ignoring the pain in the back of his skull, ignoring the way his peripheral vision wobbled every now and again. None of that shit mattered. What did matter was finding Sam and pulling his damn ass out of this mess in one piece.

The snow was deeper here and crunched underfoot. Russell shivered in the cold, rubbing one hand up his arm, attempting to warm his aching bones. He'd given Caleb his coat to keep the injured man warm, but the plaid overshirt he was wearing was barely keeping the biting chill from sinking through the thin material. His old bones hurt with the cold.

Losing his footing in the drifts, he stumbled, throwing a hand out to catch himself just in time. He would have liked to blame the unsteady ground for his near fall, but the truth was Russell was having difficulty keeping his balance. He knew he was concussed, knew his head injury was causing him more trouble than he needed, but still he pressed on, forcing the dizziness aside, forcing the nausea away. He had a twelve year old kid to find, and Russell wouldn't be too late. Not this time.

* * *

Sam awoke with a dull headache and a dry mouth. As his senses slowly rebooted, he realised he was lying on his stomach, something cold beneath him. Gingerly, he unfurled his fingers, and brushed the tips across the ground, trying to make sense of where he was. It was stone beneath him, not snow that his skin touched and he frowned at the realisation. He tried to open his eyes, tried to force the heavy lids apart, but the wave of dizziness that assaulted him made him feel sick to his stomach. Sam squeezed his eyes tightly shut and tried to mentally bargain with the bile crawling up his throat. After a moment, the sensation dissipated, and Sam took a relieved breath.

Shivering uncontrollably, his skin prickled with unbearable heat, his bones ached to their very core. Sam tried to mentally catalogue all his limbs, and was grateful as hell when he realised they were all where they should be. There were new injuries on top of his old ones, but he was still in one piece – more or less.

That wasn't to say he wasn't in pain, however. Sam's left forearm was burning fiercely and his previously bruised ribs were now agony. Each breath was akin to having a truck dropped on his torso. His head ached so badly that every minute movement sent spikes of violent pain racing through his brain. There was also a blooming pain across his back, no doubt caused by the Black Annis dragging him through the trees, over the hard ground. The skin felt shredded and his t-shirt was stuck to him, glued no doubt by his own blood and sweat.

Suddenly, something snarled at the side of him. Sam dragged his face across the cold ground so quickly, it made his vision reel.

It was her… the Black Annis.

She was no longer the crone-like blue-faced hag, but looked like she had the first time Sam had seen her; a serene faced old lady. Shit, she could have been anyone's grandma. It was only the amber eyes that suggested something about her wasn't quite right.

Sam scrabbled off his front, his arms shaking beneath his weight and pushed himself onto his knees, his breath ripping out in fearful rags. He also quickly realised that he was back in the cave she had brought him to last time, but he was now locked in a small cage like a wild animal. Sam ignored that. He would deal with his imprisonment in a moment. For now, his attention was focused on the Black Annis.

She was sat in front of the cage on a low backed chair, her amber eyes wide and staring. Sam flinched, flattening himself against the back bars, his heart pounding. He could smell stale blood, urine, and vomit. There were other smells… half-rotted flesh and the murky, oppressive stench that came with that. He wasn't sure what the hell he could do against her with his injuries, but Sam's sluggish gaze was already sliding around the cave looking for something he could use for a weapon. It was then he realised that the Black Annis hadn't moved, nor had she attempted to move. She hadn't moved an inch, but her amber orbs still focused on him. She was… asleep…? Sam's frown deepened. Caleb had said she was weaker after sunrise… did she have to sleep to regenerate? Or was it a more primal instinct? Did she have to sleep to… change into the hag or to eat? Sam wasn't sure he gave a shit what the answer was. Either way, it was a saving grace. Maybe he could get out of the cage and escape whilst she slept. Certain that he wasn't about to be attacked, Sam took a moment to scan his surroundings.

The cage was about four foot long and wide with thin horizontal bars. Sam didn't recall seeing it last time, but then again he'd been a little too busy running for his life. He hadn't exactly had time to take in the décor and what he had seen had been enough anyway. His gaze split between the Black Annis and his imprisonment, Sam ran a hand over the bars. The door itself was secured with a large rusty padlock. There was no way Sam could get his hands through the bars to reach it which put picking the damn thing out of the picture and Sam was a little afraid of using brute force to try and break the cage door on the hinges side. She was asleep now, but she was hardly going to sleep through that.

Letting out a fearful breath, Sam felt his desperation mounting. It was only heightened further when his gaze fell across the mutilated body still on the table. Sam didn't want that to be him. He was so scared of what this creature was going to do to him. Flaying… It wasn't exactly how Sam imagined his life ending. He didn't doubt that his father and brother would do what they could to save him; the problem was that neither John nor Dean _knew_ Sam was in trouble. He was supposed to be safe – in the cabin – and he wasn't counting on Russell or Caleb for help. The last thing Sam had seen before the Black Annis had dragged him off into The Black Hills was Russell unconscious on the ground and blood on Caleb's pale skin.

Sam whimpered uncontrollably. He was going to die and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. Trembling, the twelve-year-old scrambled back against the far side of the cage and drew his bruised knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. His borrowed sweats were caked in dirt and were wet from being dragged through the snow at an alarming speed. Sam hoped Caleb wasn't too attached to them because they were pretty much ruined. Caleb's coat was history too. Sam didn't remember where he had lost it or how but the thin t-shirt he had also borrowed wasn't doing much to keep him warm. The air in the cave was thin and laced with ice. Every breath hurt and was like swallowing lungfuls of arctic water.

Like the frigid air wasn't enough, his body was also racked with tremors, his muscles aching with cold. He felt awful, and he wasn't sure how much of it was his injuries and how much was his illness. Either way, he wanted to curl into a ball and sleep for a month.

At the cave entrance, Sam could see sunlight and wondered how long he'd been here. Was it the same day or days later? He wasn't sure. He let his head drop back against the bars, his entire body aching with a mix of fever and injury. His arms were a mass of nicks, cuts and already forming bruises. There was a deep gash on his right arm that was bleeding, trails of crimson spider-webbing down his forearm before trickling through his fingers and dripping onto the ground.

God, he was totally screwed.


	9. Chapter 9

AN - Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I sincerely hope I got back to everyone with my thanks. If I missed you out for some reason, I apologise. Thanks to Dana for the awesome beta and also her help with information on The Black Hills. All further mistakes are mine.

Dedicated to _Jenilee_.

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

_The Black Hills, South Dakota_

_Wed 13 March 1996_

The world was moving, swirling on its axis, muted colours dripping into one another. Russell lowered his head further onto his chest, his chin practically grazing his torso, his knees sinking further into the snowy ground and tried to breathe through the bile coating the back of his throat. If he moved he was going to throw up. Even if he didn't move he still might.

Closing his eyes to everything, he exhaled shakily, swallowing the excessive saliva pooling in his mouth. He didn't dare to open his eyes. He was too dizzy. His ears were ringing and there was a frantic pounding behind his lids.

He didn't have time for this. Each moment he sat in the snow was another minute the Black Annis had with Sam. It was a moment longer she had to torture the boy. Russell wasn't prepared to let that happen and his resolve to protect the kid overshadowed his injuries. Christ, he'd survived worse. The last time he'd been up in these hills hunting he'd been close to death. He'd dragged his battered ass miles down the hillside towards safety before Joshua had found him. A little thing like a concussion wasn't going to stop him here, not when there was so much at stake. Painfully, the dry voice in the back of his mind reminded him that Sam was around the same age as Jeremy had been when the demon had killed him. It was no age to die. His son had the rest of his life ahead of him; a life to explore and make his own, a life in which to accomplish anything. He'd never had that chance. The kid had been murdered before he'd even had the chance to experience life, and Russell wasn't about to let that happen to Sam. Not if he could help it.

Wincing, Russell cracked one eye open and took an experimental breath. He didn't heave and so he took that as a sign to try the other. Both eyes now open, he blinked the fog from his vision and swallowed hard as everything wavered. God, this was going to be harder than he first thought.

"C'mon Russell, move your goddamn ass," he muttered to himself through clenched teeth.

Russell pushed his hands into the snow, ignoring the chill that burnt into his palms and managed to climb onto wobbly legs. Staggering a little as he tried to find equilibrium with his own roiling consciousness, the grizzled hunter shook himself mentally and pushed through the fog clouding his mind.

He hoped Caleb had managed to contact John, prayed that the hunter wasn't too far behind him. Russell would be able to at least hold off the Black Annis long enough for the youngest Winchester to escape, but he wasn't at all convinced he'd be able to do _that_ for long. The hope that John and Joshua could soon be treading the path he was walking was all that he had to cling onto.

Rubbing his hands up and down his freezing arms, Russell glanced around the snow covered ground and frowned deeply. The hillside was a pale mirage of trees spanning as far as the eye could see, thick needled conifers standing tall like sentries, watching over the valley below The Hills. Russell sighed, breath steaming in front of his face. It looked nice enough, but it didn't help him with his current predicament.

Shaking himself out of his musing, he slid his gaze around the clearing, searching for the GPS Caleb had thrust into his hands earlier. When he'd collapsed into the snow, Russ had dropped everything. The small handset was lying in the blanket of white directly in front of him. Russell carefully, and slowly, bent down and fished it off the ground, brushing the dust off it. He snorted, his brow raising. At least this thing was strong enough to withstand being dropped. The dot was still blinking on the screen, a rapid frantic winking black spot that was supposedly John's youngest son. Not that Russell was entirely sure he trusted this goddamn thing to lead him anywhere. The insistence of the youth of today to rely on technology for everything freaked Russell out even more than demons and monsters.

One unsteady foot in front of the other, he continued on the path indicated by the GPS. He might not trust it, but he didn't really have any other option but to follow it. This thing had taken him on the most direct route through The Hills to find Sam; there was no guarantee that he could even pick up the kid's trail again anyway and Russell didn't have time to go traipsing through the trees searching either. Time was a luxury that he could not afford right now.

Glancing up at the murky sky, Russell frowned deeply. It was past noon, heading into late afternoon. He probably should have stopped and eaten but he couldn't bring himself to do so. Instead, he soldiered on, ignoring the throbbing in his head and the aching in his chest from the Black Annis's attack. However, Russell was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything other than the cold. His bare arms were goose-bumped and his body was shivering. He'd given his own jacket to Caleb, not wanting the younger man to go into shock. He wished he'd at least thought to replace the garment with a sweatshirt or _something_ before taking off into the back of beyond to go hunting a rabid, crazed hag with a head injury that could have floored a bear.

Trudging through the deep drifts, Russell glanced up through the thick canopy of needle covered branches overhead before lowering his gaze to the GPS. The dot had disappeared, the signal weakened under the trees here. He resisted the urge to throw the piece across the ground, instead readjusting his course slightly. Breaking the damn thing wasn't going to help him – or Sam for that matter. He needed a clear shot of the sky, but he wasn't likely to get it here.

Russell continued to stumble across the uneven ground, his teeth chattering together, checking the handset every now and again. The dot appeared sporadically, letting him know he was at least heading in the right direction, but it disappeared just as often. He had no idea how far or long he'd been walking, but his legs were aching almost as much as his throbbing head.

The handset suddenly gave a startled yelp that made Russell jump. The dot was blinking frantically and beeping simultaneously. Frowning at it, he raised his eyes and glanced around the trees dotting the side of the hill. He couldn't see any sign of the boy – nor the Annis in the immediate vicinity. His other hand moved towards the back of his jeans automatically and his wooden fingers circled the butt of the Desert Eagle, pulling it out of his waistband. He couldn't see her, but that didn't necessarily mean she wasn't here. The Black Annis was not only fast, but she could melt in and out of sight better than any frigging magicians trick. Houdini had jackshit on this old hag.

The GPS gave another shriek that brought Russell's attention back to the immediate issue.

"I'm guessing that means I'm on the right track," he muttered to himself.

Pushing his way through dense underbrush and thick, gnarled arm-like branches, he followed the dot on the GPS, the device clutched in one hand, the Desert Eagle in the other. It was bulky and heavy as hell. Russell silently cursed Caleb. This thing might have been capable of bitch-slapping the Black Annis's ass all the way to Timbuktu, but it wasn't exactly designed to be easily carried. Russell wasn't sure how useful this thing would be in close combat.

Gun raised, his gaze flicking between the handset and the landscape in front of him, Russell slowly moved through the trees, forcing his eyes to be more alert and focused than he felt. It was taking a hell of a lot more energy than he had.

As the trees thinned even more, the beeping got closer together. Russell edged forwards, scanning the small clearing that emerged between the trunks. The snow was disturbed here and Russell's gaze was instantly drawn to the only hint of colour on the blanched ground. Even from a distance, he knew what it was.

Caleb's coat was snagged on a branch, the material frayed and ripped as if it had been brutally torn off the wearer. It wasn't the coat that had snared his attention, however, it was the splatter of crimson that stained the white ground beside the garment. Swallowing hard, Russell slid watchful eyes around before crouching down besides the marred snow. He knew it was blood – of that he had no goddamn doubt – and he was certain it was Sam's. Scrubbing a hand over his mouth, he tore his gaze from the ghastly stain and carefully untangled Caleb's coat from the tree. He found the other GPS in the pocket and sighed at the shrieking desperation coming from his own device. It had worked, just as Miller had said it would, the problem was Sam wasn't with the coat. The question begged where the hell _was_ the damn kid?

Slowly rising from his crouch, Russell noticed that none of the trees here were evergreens and all had lost their leaves. The majority of the branches were stripped bare, the landscape a greying graveyard of skeletal branches and winter-induced death. The clawed branches bent back and forth in the breeze, talons seemingly reaching for Russell. He shuddered, suddenly feeling chilled to the bone, his anxiety hitching up another notch. Nothing about this place felt right. In fact, it felt decidedly creepy.

Unable to shake the feeling, Russell twisted in a circle on the spot, his hard eyes split between searching the ground and looking for anything that could be considered hostile. Caleb's technology had worked, but Russell couldn't help but think that it would have been a hell of a lot easier to follow the bitch the old fashioned way from the frigging start.

Thankfully, it didn't take a lot of effort to find the tracks he was looking for. Drag marks disappeared into the trees, lined with blood for the first few meters before fading into sporadic splashes. Russell sighed deeply, his stomach twisting into knots of fear.

"I hope to hell you're ok, kid," he muttered, shoving both GPS's into his jeans pockets and following the tracks of the twelve-year-old boy.

* * *

Joshua Turner wasn't sure who he was more pissed off with at the moment; John for being… well, _John_, Caleb for helping Russell on this hair-brained scheme, or Russell for dragging all these people into this goddamn mess. It was too close a call, and Josh wasn't sure it was fair to try and measure his annoyance in such a clear cut way.

Shifting the long wooden supports of the makeshift litter between his grip, he glanced down at the semi-conscious arms dealer and frowned. Caleb wasn't doing too well; Josh didn't need a frigging MD after his name to realise that. John had redressed the wounds on the twenty-three year old's side and bandaged the leg further with professional precision but Caleb was pallid and kept sliding in and out of consciousness. John assured Joshua that the man was fine, and that he would be fine till they got back to town, but Josh wondered if John was just saying that to reassure them all that this mess wasn't that bad.

"You want a picture, Turner," Caleb's voice slurred, "it'll last a helluva lot longer."

Making a face at the younger man, Joshua resisted the eye roll, just grateful that the man was talking.

"Don't flatter your goddamn self, Miller. You've got a face only a mother could love." The gibe was said with false cheer that Joshua didn't feel. Caleb was hurt badly. Russell was out there playing the hero, and Sam… God, he didn't even want to think about how the hell that kid was doing.

Shifting his gaze around the sombre group, he realised it was the first time anyone had spoken since they had loaded Caleb onto the litter over two hours ago. John was at the front of the stretcher, holding the lengths of wood as if they were made of feathers and not the support for a hundred and seventy pound guy. Dean was walking at the side of the litter, his pack and Caleb's slung over his shoulders. The kid looked despondent as hell. Not that Joshua blamed him. He barely remembered much about his own siblings, but Russ had always drilled into him how important family was. He'd do anything for Russell, despite all his griping about how irresponsible an asshole his father was and he knew Dean was the same with his little brother.

Joshua's chest ached.

This shit was his fault. He should never have brought John in on this - or he should have insisted he took his kids somewhere safer. Christ, a cabin in the middle of fucking nowhere wasn't exactly the most ideal environment for a twelve year-old. Not only that, but Dean was too frigging young to be playing hunter. Joshua swallowed the bitterness that collected in the back of his throat. He'd lived a life similar to the one John was giving these boys. It wasn't fun being dragged across country, flung into hunts and facing crap that most adults would have shit themselves at seeing. Sometimes he resented Russell for the life he'd led, but at the same time there hadn't been any other choice. His mother had been murdered, his siblings too. Russell couldn't have left Joshua alone, and he couldn't give up his work. With age, Josh had come to realise that his father did the best he could. The man had no idea how the hell to raise a seven year old. It didn't stop the childish side of him from wanting to lash out about how goddamn unfair life was and he doubted it would keep Sam and Dean from doing the same either.

"Josh?" Caleb's cold hand snagged his wrist, bringing Joshua's blue eyes down to his face. "I'm… I'm sorry…"

Joshua sighed. It was all too easy to blame Caleb for this shit, to blame the man for coming on this hunt, but Russell wasn't some rookie kid. He'd been doing this crap for a long assed time. It wasn't as if the arms dealer had led the older man astray. Russ knew what the hell he was doing – well, supposedly.

"This ain't your damn fault, man," Joshua assured him softly, his eyes straying towards Dean. The seventeen year old was still trudging on, resolve written in every tight line in his face.

"Tell that to him," Caleb said following Joshua's gaze.

Joshua's face wrinkled as he pulled his eyes from Dean. The kid had lost so much over the years, he just hoped that he wouldn't have to lose Sam too. Frown deepening, Joshua shook the cobwebs from his mind and pushed his own dark past back into the box he kept it locked in. Now was hardly the time for a trek down memory lane; especially considering how frigging dark his own past was. Instead, Joshua brought his attention back to the injured man he was carrying.

"He doesn't blame you either, Caleb," Joshua assured him softly, averting his gaze. It wasn't that he didn't believe the words, but more that Joshua blamed himself. He should never have called John in on this. He should have dealt with this crap on his own.

Warm fingers latching onto his wrist brought Joshua's eyes back to the arms dealer's face of their own volition.

"Thought your father did the research, Josh," Caleb slurred, his eyes sliding shut to less than half-mast, "I'd never have agreed to this whacked out crusade otherwise. I wouldn't bowl in half-cocked and unprepared."

Joshua closed his eyes briefly, expending a weary breath. Back to _that_ again. Whichever way it was cut, Russell was the spark that lit the fire. The catalyst… the goddamn explosion.

"It's ok, dude," Joshua said quietly, unsure if anything about this was going to be ok. Worst case scenario in this instance was going to fuck all their lives completely, leaving Dean and John without Sam and Joshua an orphan and alone. "We'll figure this shit out."

John stopped suddenly, lowering his end of the litter onto the ground. Joshua followed suit, glad to be rid of the burden for a moment. His arms and shoulders were aching with burning acid-like pain. Stretching the blooming ache from his back, Joshua absently watched John as he moved forward across the forest floor, his head lowered to study the snow tossed ground. There'd been a lot of shit said about Winchester and the way he did things, but Joshua knew the man was an exceptional hunter. Methodology was irrelevant when he got results.

Joshua flicked a guilty gaze in Dean's direction once more, quickly glancing away when green agate eyes met his blue ones. He swore that boy could see into his frigging mind when he did that.

"Tracks lead this way," John said after a moment, moving to pick up his end of the litter once more.

"Hold on," Dean growled, making a grab from John's arm, "how the hell do we know we're following Sam and not Russell's tracks?"

John shifted his shoulders, his expression tight. Evidently he'd thought the same thing himself. "We don't, but if Caleb's GPS is doing its job, then even if we're following Russell, he's following Sam. The destination is the same, Dean; even if the route is different."

"What if that thing doesn't work?" Dean demanded. "Russell could be walking around in frigging circles for all we know and every minute we waste, Sam's life is-" Dean broke off, his expression cutting right through Joshua's heart. God, the kid just about killed him. Dean steeled himself, his emotions fading into impassive. He definitely had John Winchester stoicism down to an art form. "Not to mention the sun's gonna set soon."

_The wolf… _

The gravity of the situation suddenly hit Joshua like a collapsing building. There was no way in hell they were all going to get out of this shit in one piece. If, by some miracle, they managed to save Sam and defeat the Black Annis, they still had a frigging werewolf to deal with. The odds were not on their side.

* * *

Sam was drowning in an ice filled lake one minute, the next he was smothered in flames. His skin was so hot he could barely stand anything touching it, and yet the shivers that racked him physically hurt his chest and abdominal muscles. Curled on his side, his legs drawn up to his chin, Sam wrapped his aching arms around his limbs and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to breathe through the tremors.

His hair was plastered to his face, sweat dripping off his chin. He had no idea how long he'd been here, each minute seemingly dragging by like a full turn of the hour hand, but Sam's muscles felt atrophied and useless.

His senses were being assaulted by the stench of blood and decay. Sam tried to ignore it, tried to breathe through his mouth but it was so repugnant he couldn't push through it anyway. It practically coated the back of his throat with its acridity. He could hear water dripping from somewhere within the cave but hadn't figured out what the hell it was. The air was thin and tinged with a weightless chill that seemed to wrap around him, stealing any warmth he had.

Cracking one lid open, Sam let his hazy gaze shift around the cave and felt cold settle in his belly. The Black Annis still hadn't moved from her statuesque pose on the chair in front of the cage, and that unnerved Sam greatly. What the hell was she doing? What was she waiting for?

Slowly and carefully he pushed his hands underneath him and sat up in the cage, his shoulders hunched to avoid smacking his head against the roof of the all too small space. The world momentarily rolled around him and he had to shut his lids to stop it. His mouth was so dry that his tongue was glued to roof of his mouth and he couldn't generate enough saliva to even moisten his lips. Moving brought problems of its own. The ripped skin on Sam's back tightened and pulled painfully and his chest ached. Leaning back against the cage, Sam was able, just about, to straighten his throbbing legs. Blood rushed into the no longer constricted limbs sending waves of pins and needles that made his face twitch. It was probably the most uncomfortable sensation Sam had ever experienced.

Something caught his eye suddenly. His heart skipped a beat and spluttered over the next couple as he snapped his gaze towards the Black Annis. She moved. He was certain of it, despite the fact she was in exactly the same position as before. Sam blinked and rubbed a grimy hand over his eyes. Perhaps he had imagined it. He was exhausted, hurt and suffering from the exposure to the cold.

He had almost managed to talk his brain into believing _that_ when she moved again. And this time, she not only moved but _twisted_ her head to the side and zeroed her amber gaze on Sam.

Sam couldn't stop the gasp that escaped his lips as he slammed back against the cage walls, unmindful of his injuries. His only thought, aside from the blind panic thrumming through his brain, was putting as much distance between himself and her. Unfortunately, that was a difficult task to achieve in a cage.

His own laboured breathing was drowned out by the pumping of blood in his ears as she continued to stare at him. It was frigging unnerving as hell.

Grey tendrils of hair cast over her wrinkled face as a wide smile cracked across it.

"'Tis said the soul of mortal man recoiled to view Black Annis's eye, so fierce and wild," she laughed, a short sharp hysterical sound as she rose to her feet, her skirt of human skin crinkling as she moved towards the cage, crouching beside it. "Vast talons, foul with human flesh, there grew in place of hands." She turned her palms over, wiggling normal fingers. "You fear me?"

Sam swallowed hard, but didn't answer. It was hard to reply when your mouth was so dry you could barely move your tongue. It didn't seem to deter her, however.

Her sanguine smile grew as her eyes roved over Sam, appraising him.

"Such pretty flesh…" Sam's skin crawled, her tone liquid desire. She flicked her tongue out a little and ran it across her plump lips. "You'll taste good."

She rose off the balls of her feet and closed her amber eyes. The transformation was swift. She melted from homely granny into blue-faced psycho hag in less than a heart beat. Her hair grew more matted, her teeth yellowed and pointed, and the colour bled from her eyes until they were milky white. Sam pressed himself against the bars; his lung constricted so tightly he could barely breathe as her fingers became elongated knives.

In a motion so fluid that Sam barely saw it she had the cage door open and was dragging him out by his ankles. Stone scraped against the tender skin of his abdomen as he clawed the floor, trying to latch on to something… anything.

Sam barely gave her a chance to release her grip on him. Free of the cage, his only thought was escaping. She let him reach the entrance of the cave, let the sunlight brush his skin, let him breathe in the fresh air. She gave him the brief taste of freedom, and then cruelly yanked him back. Clawed fingers dug into his ankles and dragged him back towards the table were the flayed body was still strapped down. A horrifying thought crawled into Sam's mind suddenly. She would not let him escape this time. Not after the trouble she went to in order to get him back. She would give him hope, let him think he stood a chance, but she'd never let him leave this cave again – at least, not in one piece.

Lying on the stone floor face down, Sam's overwrought mind tried to formulate some kind of plan but he couldn't think of a damn thing to do. She was quicker and stronger. Unarmed, Sam was helpless.

He didn't have time to dwell on that, however. She rolled the body off the table and it unceremoniously dropped onto the ground next to Sam. He yelped and shuffled backwards, hitting the wall of the cave, stone digging into the ripped flesh of his back. Chest heaving, Sam couldn't help but look at the thing, transfixed by the horror of what he was seeing.

The skin had been removed from almost every inch of the body leaving a bloodied mess in its wake. Underneath the smears of crimson and clotted lumps, the person was completely unrecognisable as human. Only the face had been left intact and Sam wasn't entirely sure if that was a good thing or not. Glazed, glassy unseeing orbs stared at nothing and blood was crusted around the mouth, nose and ears.

The Black Annis crouched down in front of him, her breath hot on his face, her skirt of human skin crinkling as she bent. Her white filmy eyes studied Sam, her tongue licking her lips hungrily.

"It's time…" she hissed, her gaze shifting towards the table. Sam swallowed hard as he noticed the blood and bits of ragged flesh staining the wooden top. He raised fearful eyes back to her as she moved closer, her head tilting to one side. "Time to play."

* * *

**AN** - Firstly don't shoot me for that ending. My beta laughed at me in her note and basically told me I was screwed when y'all get hold of me. So, I guess I'm saying be nice to me... please :D straps on kevlar vest and hides

Secondly, I've created a website to house a number of authors work so that between us we can build an archive of fanfictions and original works that can be easily categorised and found. It doesn't just apply to Supernatural and any other fandoms can be added, but have a look and see what you guys think. If anyone is interested in me hosting your work there, drop me an email. The web address for the site is http (colon slash slash) writersguild101 (dot) bravehost (dot) com


	10. Chapter 10

**AN **- Thanks to Dana for the beta once again. Any further mistakes are mine, the tweaking Queen.

Thanks for all your reviews guys and I hope you like this one :)

Dedicated to _Jenilee_. :)

There is swearing and a level of violent yuckiness in this chapter. You were warned.

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

_The Black Hills, South Dakota_

_Wed 13 March 1996, Dusk_

Dean was pissed – and not just with his father. He was pissed with himself. He was pissed that he hadn't listened to his brother, that he hadn't heeded the warning Sam had tried to give him about this hunt being more than just a wolf. He was pissed that he hadn't _insisted_ Dad take Sam to Bobby's or Jim's. He was pissed that his ill little brother was in the hands of a psychotic grandma with a penchant for flaying. He was generally just _pissed_.

This whole hunt had been nothing but damn trouble from the start. Nothing had worked out the way it was supposed to and that thought only wound Dean up further – especially when he considered the fact that this hunt wasn't even their own. They were only here because Grizzly Adams had gone wild and taken up guerrilla warfare against skin-grafting hag lady.

Dean had barely spoken since they had found Caleb alone in the woods; he didn't trust himself to keep his mouth shut. He was pretty certain his brain-to-mouth filter was on vacation, and he didn't want to say crap he would regret later. He had, therefore, found immense solitude in silence, but the quiet gave his mind a chance to ponder over scenarios and not even Dean could stop the dark thoughts tumbling around his brain.

_God, Sammy, you better be ok!_

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face and let his gaze wander around the wasteland of twisted conifers and ash-like snow drifts. Back at the cabin, the Black Hills had seemed beautiful, grand even, but now they felt oppressive and dark. Each step seemed to bring Dean deeper into the maze of trees and further from his brother. He hated this frigging place. Nature suddenly seemed dangerous and bigger than Dean could ever have imagined. He felt like an ant stood amongst giants. The mountains had swallowed Sam whole and he was praying that they would give him back. He'd take the whole place apart stone by stone if they wanted to be stubborn about it.

"Johnny, we gotta stop," Joshua said, his southern twang piercing through the still air abruptly. Dean scowled at the insistence, but stopped walking, turning back to the group. He almost shot a line about Josh being too damn fragile but held his tongue at the last moment when he realised Josh hadn't called a stop because he was tired, but because of Caleb. Dean might have been pissed to hell, but he still cared about these people – and once he got his brother back, he might be capable of remembering that fact too.

Josh and John lowered the makeshift litter onto the ground, both men moving towards Caleb's head. The arms dealer was shivering uncontrollably, despite being zipped into Dean's own sleeping bag.

"What's wrong?" Dean demanded, more worried now than annoyed as he moved closer to the stretcher. As soon as he caught sight of Caleb, he knew it was a redundant question – one that he already knew the answer to.

Beneath the mound of fabric, Caleb's pale face stood out starkly against the scarlet bag. Even from his vantage point, Dean could tell the older man was clammy and sweating profusely.

John shrugged his rucksack off and knelt down beside the stretcher, one hand resting on Caleb's forehead, the other pressing two fingers into his throat. There wasn't a single emotion that slid onto John's face as he examined the man, but Dean could read John without a manual. He was frigging worried.

"Pass me a water bottle," John said to Joshua, holding a hand out ready to accept it. Joshua gave him a slightly disgruntled glare at being ordered around like a kid, but dragged the zipper back on his rucksack without a word.

"He ok?" Dean asked moving closer, his forehead scrunched with anxiety.

"He will be," John said tightly, taking the offered water from the southern man. The controlled tone in John's voice told Dean more that any words could. His father was worried. His assurances were complete crap and Dean knew that. Joshua wasn't fooled by the blasé attitude either.

He snorted incredulously, raising his brow, "You _are_ kiddin', right? The guy looks like death warmed over."

John slid brown eyes towards the man, his expression austere. It would have made lesser men flinch, but Joshua didn't even react, his blue eyes locked on John's face.

"It's bad, but it's not life threatening," he said. "The bleeding is controlled; exposure and shock are the real problems."

Scrubbing his fingers through his unruly hair, Joshua glanced at Caleb before returning his gaze towards John. He let out a low breath that was laced with frustration and apprehension.

"Sun's gonna be settin' shortly, old man," Joshua said quietly, but the words didn't lose their sting.

All of them knew what it meant, knew the problems that were going to come once night fell. It wasn't a simple case of rescuing Sam and Russell. There were other factors – dangerous factors.

"We need to keep moving," John replied, returning his attention to the injured arms dealer. "Caleb?" He didn't react to the sound of his name, his shivering seemingly increasing. John wasn't deterred and tried again to rouse the injured man, this time pressing his knuckles against Caleb's sternum.

It had the desired affect. Instantly, his lids fluttered and cracked open. Rheumy eyes peeked out from beneath the heavy slits, sliding around, attempting to focus on something, whilst his fingers fumbled to latch onto John's fisted hand..

"Caleb?" John searched his face. Caleb's eyes rolled around and, after a moment, he settled on John, his brow furrowing.

"You're not Meg Ryan," he stated emphatically. It would have been funny if his voice wasn't slurring so badly.

"No, I'm not," John replied, his lips curling upwards a little. "How you feelin' soldier?"

Caleb pulled a face, his forehead lined with unveiled pain. "Fine – 'til you woke me up."

"Dreaming's for girls, dude," Joshua said quietly, his eyes anxiously flicking over the younger man's face.

"Prob'ly why you dream so much," Caleb murmured, his lids sliding shut drowsily.

"At least I ain't dreamin' 'bout Meg Ryan. That's enough reason to keep your damn eyes open," the older man said with amusement, but his expression was worried when he sought out John. The elder Winchester didn't look up, his gaze locked onto Caleb.

Without asking or waiting for an invite, John moved towards the zipper of the sleeping bag and pulled it back. Obviously, feeling the cold chill creeping through the opening, Caleb tried to stop the man, pushing his hands away.

"Can't a guy sleep in peace?" Caleb stumbled over the words, failing to make a single properly formed syllable in the whole sentence.

"You can sleep once I've checked your wound, Rip Van Winkle," John assured him, already lifting the side of his t-shirt. Dean peered over the litter, trying to get a look at the bandage covering his friend's side. It was blood spotted but the gauze seemed to have stemmed a good deal of the bleeding. It was a good sign. A damn good sign.

Joshua raised his gaze from the dotted material, his expression hopeful. "Not much blood on that, Johnny."

John's lips pulled into a thin smile. "No, the bandage will hold until we can get him to a hospital. It's the leg I'm worried about."

"Wha'ever happens, don't you cut it off, Winchester," Caleb warned, blue eyes flicking lazily towards Joshua. "He comes near my leg with a knife-"

"Ain't nothin' gonna happen to your damn leg, Miller," Josh assured him, brushing his chin length chestnut hair out of his eyes. Seemingly satisfied with the older hunter's declaration, Caleb nodded and let his eyes close once more.

Dean let out a small breath as his father pushed the sleeping bag away from Caleb's leg and carefully peeled back his cut jeans to look at the bandaged limb itself. Rationally, Dean knew none of this shit was anyone's fault. He knew that Caleb hadn't exactly planned on getting hurt and that Russell was risking his ass to save his brother, but it didn't lessen his frustration or sense of dread. Sam had only been privy to the hunting world for the last three and a half years, and although he was a fast learner, Dean couldn't help but think his kid brother really wasn't prepared to take on this creature alone. They were wasting time pissing around. He was sorry Caleb was hurt; he did – after all – like the guy, but when it came to Sam, the rest of the world didn't really matter. Caution was thrown to the wind and Dean was a little scared sometimes of just how far he would go to protect his brother – and how many people he would willingly trample all over to reach him.

He glanced over his shoulder at the murky, darkening sky. Nightfall was rapidly approaching, and with it came the added problem of the werewolf. Dean hoped Fido would be elsewhere this evening, but he knew that Winchester luck was notoriously bad. Any supernatural creature within a hundred mile radius was bound to have zeroed in on them, just so they could throw a couple more wrenches in the works. Fate wouldn't be content to simply thrust Hannibal Lector's granny on them. She never frigging was. As bad as shit could get for most people, it would always go that one step further for the Winchesters. Fate and the Powers-That-Be had a sense of humour – apparently. Although, Dean wasn't seeing the joke in this situation. He was, however, seeing another option. Caleb was slowing them down, but they only needed two of them to carry the litter. Dean could go ahead, find Sam, waste hag lady, and bring his brother back to safety. All this waiting around was driving him crazy. He felt like an iron ball had settled in his stomach and he couldn't shift it. He needed to find Sam and he needed to do it now.

"Don't even think about it!" the barked warning startled Dean. He turned back towards his father who was eyeing him, his expression hard.

"We're wasting time," Dean argued, scowling at his father's ability to read him so well.

John's lips twisted up slightly. "You're not going after that thing alone, Dean."

"So what?" Dean snapped, "We just wait for her to _kill_ Sam? I don't mean to press you, Dad, but we're kinda running out of time here!"

And wasn't that the understatement of the century? The sun was retreating further behind the muddy clouds, darkness creeping towards the edge of the trees, closer to the little group but staying just out of reach of them. Dean felt nightfall stalking their steps like an unwanted guest.

"Nothing is going to happen to Sam," John said quietly, returning his attention to Caleb's leg. Dean noticed the slight tenseness around his father's shoulders and knew he should back down. He didn't heed his own warning however, his fear for his brother pushing him to speak.

"You don't know that!" Dean growled. "For all you know that bitch could be tearing the skin off his fucking body right now!"

Dean wasn't sure what response he had been expecting, but it wasn't the one he got. John literally erupted.

"_Don't you say that!"_ he spat the words, his jaw set, his eyes blazing. "Your brother is _fine_, Dean, he's _fine_! He's coming out of this in one goddamn piece, you hear me?"

John scrubbed a shaky hand over his face and took an equally shaky breath as he tried to rein his outburst back in. Dean suddenly felt guilty as hell for prodding his father. This shit was just as hard on him as it was on Dean. Attempting to control his own emotions as much as possible, Dean scratched at his brow and sighed.

"We can cover more ground this way; Russ can't be that far ahead." Dean tried to sound as reasonable as he could manage, tried to keep his voice level, hoping John wouldn't see through it. He might as well have been made of glass. John wasn't biting.

"We stick together."

"But Dad-"

"We stick together, Dean!" John snapped. "I won't risk you too!"

Dean licked his lips and then threw his hands up in the air. "I can't wait, Dad, I _can't_," Dean shot back, frustration lacing his words. "Sam doesn't have _time_!"

John opened his mouth as he was going to speak but instead let out a shallow breath, his mouth tightening into a line.

"The leg looks fine," John said to no one in particular, but it clearly signalled the end of the conversation. Dean wanted to push it further but Joshua was already speaking. And judging from his father's expression, prodding him right now was likely to end with loss of limbs.

"Might look fine, Johnny, but Caleb don't."

"Wha'cha talkin' 'bout?" Caleb murmured, rousing a little, "M'fine, Turner."

Joshua snorted sceptically, "Yeah, well, you ain't seen yourself, man – reserve judgment."

John slipped a hand underneath Caleb's head and raised it off the ground. With his free hand he tilted the water bottle towards the arms dealer's lips and helped him drink.

Swallowing spasmodically, Caleb drank greedily before John finally pulled the bottle away.

"Easy," John said quietly, "you'll hurl if you drink too much."

Caleb sank back onto the ground with John's help and shifted his gaze towards the man, bright blue eyes dulled with pain.

"How bad is it?" Caleb asked, his brow tightly knitted, "An' I want the truth – no bullshitting, Winchester."

John considered him for a moment. "Your leg is a mess, but I think it's salvageable, and the wound to your side has finally stopped bleeding, but there's a chance of infection. I don't think she's poisonous – the Annis, that is - so you don't have to worry about that," John sighed, suddenly looking burdened to hell. Dean could practically see the world he was holding on his shoulders. "You'll live, Caleb – if that's what you're asking."

Caleb squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm dizzy as hell, John."

"That's not surprising. You suffered a serious trauma, kid; your body is just reacting to that."

Caleb cracked an eye open, "You'd tell me if I was fucked, wouldn't you?"

"Always." John gave him a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You'll be fine, Caleb. Everything is going to be fine."

And Dean believed him – almost. It was difficult not to believe him, the man was so unflappable, but Dean knew a thing or two about lies and he knew his father was lying through his ass. He wasn't as confident as he was making out.

Reaching for his bag, John slipped it onto his shoulders and grabbed for the poles of the makeshift stretcher. Automatically, Joshua reached for his end and lifted at the same time.

Dean let out a long breath and followed after the two men and the stretcher. No matter what the hell happened, he wasn't losing his brother.

* * *

Sam's first instinct was to scream… scream until his lungs bled. He kept his lips pressed tightly together, however, pushing that terror back down into the pit of his stomach. It wasn't an easy task – by any stretch of the imagination.

He could smell the stale stench of old blood, metallic and rotten, permeating the air around him, and it made him feel queasy as hell. His hands and feet were bound in thick leather straps that were bolted into the table itself. Bolted so the wearer could not pull free of them when she was…

He swallowed hard and frantically pulled against the restraints to little avail. They didn't give an inch – not that he expected they would. Life was never that frigging good to him. This was a nightmare, the _nightmare_ of a nightmare, in fact. Sam was terrified.

Moving the only part of his body that he could, he twisted his head to the side, rough wood grazing his cheek, and tried to see where she had gone. The Annis had disappeared somewhere… he couldn't see where, but she had dragged the flayed corpse behind her and vanished seemingly into thin air. Sam gave his restraints another tug and let out a panicked whimper when they didn't release their hold. Even in the cage he had believed he would be saved. He hadn't thought it would get this far. The childish part of his brain had conjured up rescue attempts by his brother and father, but that looked unlikely now and he was trying to resign himself to his fate.

Sam closed his eyes and felt warm tears rolling down his cheeks. He was trying to talk himself through the pain that was going to come, was attempting to assure himself that he could deal with it, that he could get through it. He couldn't imagine what it felt like – being flayed – but it made his heart palpitate and his blood run cold. The urge to scream returned in full force. He wanted his brother. He wanted his father. He didn't give a shit how childish or pathetic that want was. Sam _wanted_ them. He didn't want to die like this. He didn't want her to do to him what she had done to the poor bastard she'd dragged away.

His eyes flew open and Sam shakily raised as much of his torso as he could move off the table. He needed a weapon. He needed a frigging plan. He needed a flame thrower and tank. He wasn't likely to get either.

There was another table a few feet from the one Sam was currently bound to but it was more like a workbench. Sam's breath caught in his throat as his gaze roved over the surface. Clamps… knives… not that she had much need for sharp objects considering she was Edward Scissorhands' evil twin. Sam ignored the other shiny torture devices laid out on the top and focused on the knife. If he could reach it, maybe he could get free. The problem was he couldn't move enough in the bindings to reach the workbench. Sam took a deep breath and pulled tightly against the restraints, hoping to pull the bolts out or loosen them… anything. Nothing happened, however, and after a few minutes, his wrists were raw and weeping blood beneath the thick leather straps. Brute strength, what little Sam had, wasn't going to count for shit in this situation.

A scratching noise caught his attention and he twisted his neck to see what had caused the sound. It was her… she was back. Her lips were peeled back into a macabre grin, her head titled to the side. Standing near the entrance of the cave, but out of the last of the daylight, she raised filmy white eyes towards the sky. In a movement so swift he barely saw it, the Annis moved from the entrance to the workbench. She curled knife-like fingernails and, with her back to him, picked up each instrument on the surface by turn before finally turning to Sam.

"Won't hurt," she said quietly, running a sharp finger down his face.

Sam twisted away from her touch, but he couldn't move far and he could do nothing as she pushed the bladed nails into his skin. Blood pooled on his cheek and trickled off the edge of his chin, staining the already marked wood beneath him, adding his blood to the numerous people who had died on this table too.

Sam blinked tears away and stared numbly at the darkness that enshrouded the roof of the cave, the light from the flickering candles unable to illuminate that far, as she cut his t-shirt off his body. He didn't feel the cold, although he knew he should have.

"Please…" he whispered, his voice laced with desperation.

She pulled closer to his face, her fetid breath warm on his clammy skin. She ran her tongue over her yellow stained fangs and considered Sam hungrily.

"Be over soon," she said softly, knife-like fingers brushing through Sam's tousled bangs.

The pain that came was blinding.

Sam's entire arm felt like it was on fire. His back arched of its own accord, his throat muscles taut as a soundless scream formed on his lips. His voice took a couple of seconds longer to finally make an appearance. The pain increased as she sliced deeper into the skin and Sam could no longer hold back. He let out a strangled yelp of agony and attempted to drag his restrained arm away from her.

"Oh, God…" he gasped the words, bucking on the table as basic instincts overtook his ability to think rationally. His pain receptors were on full alert, electric agony racing through the entire limb. He could feel warm blood running down his arm, but he was concentrating on trying to control his breathing. It was ripping out of his throat in acidic rasps, his heart thrumming frantically underneath his ribs.

Two loud bangs resonated around the inside of the cave suddenly, and the pain lessened to a more manageable level. The Annis shrieked, a blood curdling, stomach clenching sound, and moved out of his line of sight.

Sam's vision was wobbling a little and he had to roll his heavy head across the tabletop to follow her movements, but he could barely make out what the hell was going on. Everything was twitching around him, and he couldn't focus properly on anything. Where the hell was she? Was she down? Sam prayed she was dead.

A third bang made him start, and the scream that followed made the hairs on his neck stand on end. Even in his muddled mind Sam knew it was a gun. He'd been around enough gunshots in the last three and a half years to recognise that sound.

He didn't want to think salvation had arrived, didn't want to think he could possibly be saved, but a small grain of hope swelled inside him.

"D-Dean…?" he pushed his brother's name out through unfeeling lips.

"Sorry, kiddo, I ain't your brother," a voice muttered, suddenly looming over the table. Sam shied away from the silhouetted shape, his hazy gaze trying to focus.

The restraints suddenly loosened on his wrists and Sam was able to move his arms – not that his arms wanted to move. He blinked rapidly, trying to see his rescuer and was more than surprised when he realised who it was.

"R-Russell-?"

The grizzled hunter glanced up from his ministration at the foot of the table for a second before turning his attention back to the restraints holding Sam's ankles still.

"Who were you expectin'? The tooth fairy?" Russell snorted and muttered something under his breath before moving back up to the head of the table. "We ain't got long before that bitch comes back. I suggest we ain't here when that happens."

Sam wholeheartedly agreed and attempted to assist Russell as he dragged him into a sitting position. It wasn't easy. He felt detached from his body, and as if to accentuate the point he swayed dangerously as soon as he was vertical. Russell clamped both hands on Sam's shoulders and steadied him.

"Easy, junior," he said softly. Sam closed one eye and glanced at the other man. Russell was blood smeared and pasty but he looked in one piece. Sam was still reeling from the unsuspected rescue.

"I'm not dreaming… am I?" Sam asked shakily, taking a deep breath through his nose which cleared his head momentarily.

Russell raised a brow, "If you are dreamin', I doubt I'm at the forefront of your mind, kid."

Fair point, but Sam still wasn't willing to believe he was real. Even as he fisted numb fingers into Russell's t-shirt he was sure his mind was playing tricks on him. Russell circled his wrist, pulling a face.

"Shit."

Sam wasn't sure what the man was cursing at until he followed his gaze. There was blood smeared up his arm… _a_ _lot_ of blood. He couldn't see the damage beneath the crimson, but it was painful enough to suggest it was bad.

Russell glanced around the cave and then grabbed Sam's other hand, clamping it onto the side of the table.

"_Don't_ let go," Russell ordered sharply before moving away from the table.

Sam complied, holding tightly onto the wood, fingers gripping so hard that he felt like his knuckles were going to pop out of the skin. He felt himself sway to one side but managed to keep upright by increasing his grip. He was so damn dizzy, and it was taking all the will he possessed to keep himself from face planting.

Russell reappeared with Sam's cut up t-shirt – the one the Annis had removed just moments before. Carefully, he wrapped it around the gash and tied it off. Sam noticed the man's hands were shaking minutely but he didn't say anything. It was hardly surprising Russell was trembling. The Black Annis was scary as hell – not to mention dangerous. Sam was surprised he was managing to keep control at all. Sam was glad Russ was here, but he would have felt a whole lot better with his father and brother at his side too.

Returning his attention to his slashed arm, Sam frowned at the makeshift bandage. He had no idea how deep it was or how bad it was. Not that it mattered a jot. Now was _not_ the time to play surgeon.

"Where's Caleb?" Sam asked slowly, wincing as Russell ran cold hands over his ribs.

Russell kept his gaze on Sam's torso, but even through the fog Sam saw a tightening around his eyes.

"Caleb's sittin' this one out, kid," was all the older hunter said.

"Is he…" Sam trailed off, his eyes searching Turner's face. He didn't want to say the word 'dead'. God, if he was…

Sam didn't even want to think about that, but blame and self-flagellation crept into the corners of his mind. Caleb had tried to protect him and if anything had happened to him that was Sam's fault. Holding his breath, Sam waited for a response he thought would never come, his fear growing steadily with the silence. Finally, the grizzled hunter glanced up at him.

"He ain't dead – if that's what you're askin'," Russell answered, concluding his examination of Sam's injured body. "C'mon, we're burnin' daylight here."

Moving to his side, Russell nudged Sam towards the edge of the table. Slowly, Sam swung stiff legs off the end and slid off the edge onto the ground.

Instantly, his limbs folded beneath him and it was only Russell's strong grip that kept him from face planting. The older hunter rolled his shoulder underneath Sam's armpit and threw his arm around his waist, pulling him towards the cave entrance.

Stumbling over his wooden feet, Sam was so relieved to feel air on his face. He'd thought he'd never feel anything again. The sky was a bruised purple now and the sun had vanished to make way for dusk. Shivering as the cold hit his bare chest, Sam forced his feet to move as Russell dragged him down the hillside, away from her lair.

He was leaning most of his weight on Joshua's father, his legs barely keeping him upright. Snow crunched underfoot, and trudging through the drifts was difficult as hell. He lost his footing more than once, dragging both him and Russ to their knees. Each time the southern man pulled Sam back onto his feet and hauled his ass through the thick woodlands.

The cold was making Sam's body sluggish and unresponsive, but the older hunter was trembling just as fiercely, his own t-shirt practically non-existent. The fourth time Sam lost his footing the two men went down heavily. Sam's hip jarred as he slammed into the snow and he couldn't help the gasp that escaped his lips as his bare torso touched the icy blanket.

He pushed himself up quickly, hissing at the chill that was spreading through his muscles like poison.

"Russell?" Sam murmured as he got to his knees and glanced around. The makeshift bandage around his wrist was bloodied now and leaving crimson trails in the snow, but it was Turner that worried him. He was kneeling, his head on his chest, his eyes tightly shut. "You ok?"

The older hunter cracked one eye open and winced. Dried blood was crusted down the side of his face, staining the neckline of his t-shirt, and Sam found himself wondering how the hell he'd managed to even find him in the state he was in.

"Just… gimme a mo, kid," Russell muttered through clenched teeth.

They didn't have a moment. The Black Annis chose that exact second to crash through the underbrush. Sam's breath caught in his throat as he scrabbled back on his knees, one hand fisting into Russell's shirt, attempting to pull him back from the sudden danger.

Brushing Sam off, Russell raised his gun, aimed and fired off three rounds. The first went wide, but the second hit the Annis fully in the chest. She staggered back one step and kept coming even as he fired the third. When he pulled the trigger for the fourth time, it clicked but nothing happened.

"Give me a goddamn break," Russell growled, shaking fingers digging into his jeans pocket for additional rounds.

He slammed the magazine in, pulled the catch back, and fired. She went down with a squeal and this time she didn't get back up. Russell physically shook himself before staggering to his feet. Hooking an arm underneath Sam's armpit, he heaved him upright and shoved him in the opposite direction of the Annis.

Sam didn't need telling twice. He was freezing, dizzy and hurt, but he moved like he had the devil on his heels. He could push through his pain and his fever; his life depended on it. Half staggering, Sam was dragged through the trees by Russell, away from the Black Annis. She'd gone down, but Sam knew she wouldn't stay down long and when she got back up…? Well, Sam didn't want to think about her retribution.

* * *

**AN** ok so no horrendous cliff hanger, but hopefully you guys don't mind that. :) At least this way I can take off the kevlar. :)

My new site is up and running so check it out. It allows you to find certain types of fics you like to read, for example limp sam are all under one section. :) The forum is also up and running. You dont have to be a writers to join. It is a place to discuss TV shows, books, movies and generally just chat. :) It would be nice to see y'all there :)

http : / / writersguild101 . bravehost . com (no spaces)

http : / / writersguild . hyperboards . com


	11. Chapter 11

**AN** - Thanks to Leigh for making this chapter infinitely better. :) Your advice is really appreciated. All further mistakes belong to myself.

I own nothing... not even my own bed. Hope you guys like this one.

Dedicated to Jenilee :)

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

_**The Black Hills, South Dakota**_

_**Wed 13 March 1996, Dusk**_

John's stoic expression hid the fact his stomach was twisting into knots at the thought of what that creature was doing to his son.

Dean's words echoed in his head; Sam could be dead – or worse. John couldn't help but think death was the kinder of the two, then cursed himself for such thoughts.

He'd left Sam behind to keep him safe. Damn it to hell. Would his sons _ever_ be safe from this 'other' world? It was one of the reasons John had drilled them so relentlessly on hunting and fighting these things. But was it enough? Would it ever be enough?

Shifting the makeshift wooden poles of the litter, John frowned deeply as he continued to trudge through the muddy darkness, weaving his way around trees and underbrush. The sky was a bruised purple now; the sun had disappeared behind the hills and the landscape was a mass of silhouetted shapes punctuated by dark clouds.

John carefully picked his way through the trees, the only light coming from the bright white beam of Dean's flashlight and the full moon itself when it peeked out from behind the clouds. John was exhausted from carrying the injured man but he couldn't, and wouldn't, stop. Sam needed him and, for once, he wasn't going to let his son down.

Dean stopped suddenly, shifting the light along the ground where he was standing.

"What's wrong?" John came to a stop, his eyes alert as he scanned the dark woodlands. Every shadow seemed alive and threatening; John's heart was in his throat as he tried to decipher if anything was actually moving out there.

"I lost the damn trail," Dean said, flicking the beam across the blanketed ground, his voice laced with frustration.

Surprised, John lowered his gaze. He frowned. There was no new snow fall so where the hell had the prints gone?

"You followed the trail?" John frowned and lowered his end of the litter onto the ground. Joshua followed suit, moving over to Caleb's head to check on the man as John strode over to his son.

He didn't need light to see Dean's reaction to that question; John could feel the glare piercing the night air.

"No, I thought I'd take us on the scenic route,"

"Watch your tone, boy," John snapped, regretting it immediately. He wasn't pissed with Dean, he was pissed with himself. This was his fault. It was his job to protect his boys, and he'd failed. He'd created a goddamn mess because of this frigging hunt and now Sam's life was….

John's chest tightened painfully, his heart struggling to beat... The world tilted on its axis, nausea overwhelming him. God. He couldn't lose Sam or Dean. His children were all he had left of his wife, of a life that no long existed. He couldn't bury his son. He wouldn't. .

"We'll find them, Johnny. Sam and Russ – we'll find them both."

John scowled at Joshua, angry with himself that he was so easily readable. He cleared his throat, reining in the maelstrom of emotions raging inside with frightening ease. Emotions helped no one right now; all that mattered was finding Sam.

"Where the hell did Russ go?" John scanned the ground with his flashlight, his frustration mounting, his panic increasing tenfold... "He's not Houdini; he can't have just vanished into thin air!"

John crouched down beside the print and took a moment to study the indentations before he realised what his son had done. He scrubbed a hand over his face before rising from his crouch. "We're not following Russell."

"This time of year ain't exactly big for hikers and tourists in these parts, Johnny, and I ain't seen any sasquatches," Joshua said. "So who the hell _have_ we been followin'?"

"That's the question," John said cryptically. Rubbing a hand over his tired eyes, he rose from his crouch and sighed. They couldn't afford a setback. They were losing light; in half an hour or so it would be pitch black. There was no way in hell he could pick up the trail in these conditions, and Sam needed them to find him fast.

"The wolf?" Dean asked slowly, glancing uncertainly at the human-like footprints in the snow.

"It's possible," John admitted finally, not stopping to linger over the prints. He needed to find Russell's trail again and get back on the right track. If these prints belonged to the wolf…? Well, John would cross that bridge when it came to it. He didn't have time to get hung up on the damn wolf. For now all that mattered was reaching Sam.

Joshua flicked his gaze around the soup-like darkness, scanning through the tightly packed evergreens as if he expected the wolf to materialise.

"Well that's just fucking great, Johnny," Joshua snapped before meeting John's eyes finally, "So which are we? The rock or the damn hard place? We don't exactly have time to stop and play exterminator with this thing."

John ignored him and continued searching the ground, his own mini-flashlight now in his hand. He didn't need reminding that they were against the clock. He could practically hear it ticking in his brain like a time-bomb waiting to go off.

The sudden sound of three shots resounded around the hillside, echoing through the oppressive darkness. John spun on his heel, his mind reeling, his weapon instinctively finding its way into his hands. Joshua and Dean had armed up too.

"Russell?" Joshua asked, his gun raised, poised for action.

John opened his mouth to reply when a fourth shot rang out. It sounded close, and came from west of their position. If it was Russell…? Well, the man had gone after his son, and John was spurred on by the thought that the older man could already have Sam in his hands.

"The flares that Caleb used – check the bag, Dean. Are there more?" John barked the order even as he armed himself up with extra artillery from his rucksack. He was going to make sure this bitch went down hard.

Dean shrugged Caleb's bag off his shoulder to comply with John's request, his eyes darting warily around the darkening forest as he did so. Crouching in the snow, Dean dropped his gaze to the bag, pulled back the zipper and examined the contents. "There's two flare guns, and three additional rounds."

What happened next made John's heart stop in his chest. A voice reverberated through the trees, a voice John would have recognised anywhere. It was his son. _It was Sam_.

"RUSSELL!" Sam's voice echoed through the muddy darkness again, batting away all doubts that John had imagined it.

It was the sweetest goddamn sound he had ever heard. The emotions that raced through John were overwhelming. But relief was quickly overshadowed by fear. The shots and the panic in Sam's tone… He had to get to his son.

"SAM!" Dean's yell startled John. He locked eyes with his eldest, and recognised the look in his eyes at the last moment. A moment too late.

John stood paralysed, his gaze focused on the spot where Dean had disappeared. It only took a second to snap out of it, but in that second his eldest had vanished. His chest clenched, every muscle in his torso contracting painfully. Dean was alone out there.

"Dean! No! Come back!" John's strangled cry sounded pitiful to his own ears, but he didn't care. Both of his children were in the woods with a psychotic supernatural creature roaming free – and possibly a werewolf. Too much could go wrong. John didn't like the loss of control, didn't like the uncertainty. He moved swiftly, grabbing Caleb's rucksack. He unzipped it and rummaged around until he found the other flare gun. Shoving it down his waistband, he tossed the bag at Joshua. He caught the bag clumsily, his expression confused as John grabbed his shotgun off the ground.

"Wait twenty minutes then fire off a flare. If we're not back within 30 minutes after that, haul yours and Caleb's asses down this goddamn mountain, you understand?"

"I ain't leavin' you guys," Joshua snarled, dropping the bag onto the snowy ground, "and I sure as hell ain't leaving my father either."

"Do as you're goddamn told, soldier!" John growled.

"I ain't in your fucking unit, Captain Asshole!" Joshua snapped.

John ignored the retort, turning and running into the darkness, knowing Joshua couldn't follow without leaving Caleb. He just prayed the southern man would follow his instructions.

* * *

Moving was the hardest thing Sam had _ever_ had to do.

Each footstep caused his legs to buckle beneath him, nearly driving him to his knees. His body was freezing, his bare chest numb to the bone. His crudely bandaged arm was tucked against his abdomen, attempting to stem the pain and soak in some warmth. The gesture did neither but, in spite of his pain and exhaustion, Sam kept stumbling through the snow.

Russ had shot her four times… four times and she'd only gone down for a second. The bullets had slowed her down, but Sam could still hear her crashing through the underbrush behind them. Sam wished the bitch would just die already. What was she? Invincible?

She was gaining on them, the movement behind them getting closer and louder. She shrieked an animalistic sound of rage that made Sam's blood freeze.

Oh God, she was going to catch him, she was going to catch him and drag him back to that table. Sam's heart pounded as the image of the flayed person back in the cave flashed through his head. He didn't want to end up like that. She'd only sliced his arm, and the pain of that had been horrendous. His legs turned rubbery as the Annis roared from somewhere to the side of them.

Shivering, Sam stumbled over his feet, his other hand fisted into Russell's T-shirt as he shoved the man forward, unsure who was supporting whom. He was hurting and he was freezing, but stopping was not an option. She wasn't that far behind them. To stop now was to sign their own death warrant.

The older hunter's legs folded beneath him suddenly, dragging both of them down. Sam went down heavily, old injuries flaring angrily. The snow burned his skin as he slammed into the ground, Russell's heavy form crushing him. Winded, Sam sucked air between his teeth and tried to shift the older man off him, but Russell's eyes were closed, his face as pale as the snow. Only the blood crusted onto the side of his face gave him any colour at all.

"C'mon, Russ, wake up," Sam pleaded, pushing his uninjured arm across Russell's torso in an attempt to move him, but he was a dead weight. Sam was pinned under the injured hunter and simply didn't have the strength to move him. "Russell!" Sam wanted to scream with frustration, but Russ was out for the count.

The sound of movement in the trees behind them made Sam's heart freeze. _Shit_… the Annis… it was coming… and trapped like this…? Sam couldn't do a damn thing. He fumbled around Russell's waistband, feeling for the gun. He managed to curl his fingers around the cold metal just as she erupted from the trees.

The Annis snarled and howled, her knife-like fingers extended as if she could reach across the air and pluck Sam out if it.

"Russell, c'mon," Sam breathed, pushing the man frantically but still unable to shift him. The Black Annis tilted her head and pulled her lips into a smirk. She knew… she knew he was trapped. Sam fired the gun blindly around the larger man's frame, not sure if the bullets found their mark or not.

Sam's panic increased as she slowly stalked towards her. He squeezed the trigger once more but nothing happened but a dull click. He was out of rounds. In his panic he must have emptied the barrel.

"RUSSELL!" he screamed in frustration, patting the man's face, even as he continued to try and move him. "Please! Dammit! Move."

The Annis's elongated, yellow-stained teeth peeked from underneath thin lips as she circled them. She hissed excitedly and then, in one swift movement, seized Russell's ankle, dragging him off Sam. Free of the weight, Sam coughed as his lung re-inflated and scrabbled away from the Annis as she discarded Russell roughly on the ground behind her. She gave the hunter a brief glance before she moved towards Sam.

"Trouble…" she hissed. "Nothin' but trouble."

Sam attempted to stand but his body wouldn't comply. He was too tired and too hurt. He dragged himself backwards on his elbows, churning up snow, his breath heaving out in steamed rasps.

"Please…" he sobbed, unable to stop the warm flow of tears. He didn't want to die. Not like this. "Please, no more."

This time she didn't get near him. She was barely granted one step when a familiar figure erupted from the trees.

It was Dean – and he was _pissed_.

Sam was sure he was hallucinating as he stared at his brother - all six foot one of him, a towering wall of rage, standing large as life behind the barrel of a shotgun. Dean flicked his gaze around the clearing, briefly locking eyes with Sam before he raised his weapon towards the Annis.

"Hey, Grandma!" Dean snarled, "Snack time's over."

He managed to get off one shot but she was moving before he could fire another. The Black Annis slammed into Dean and both of them hit the snowy ground heavily. Sam could barely make out what was going on, his brother lost beneath a mass of tangled limbs.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, forcing himself onto his hands and knees. He started to crawl towards Russell, hoping he could find the gun, hoping he could do anything to help his brother. Each movement was agony but Sam gritted his teeth and focused. He wasn't going to die now, not while salvation was within reach.

Then Dean was flying through the air. Sam could do nothing but watch as his brother slammed against a tree before collapsing bonelessly onto the ground. Drawing all the strength he had left, Sam staggered to his feet and stumbled over to his brother, dropping down beside him.

Dean was starting to stir already, blood oozing from a deep gash on his forehead, crimson drops staining the white snow.

"Dean?" Sam sounded pathetic and scared but he didn't care. He _was_ scared, and he pretty much felt about as pathetic as it was possible to feel. He shifted his eyes as the Annis continued to move slowly towards them. "C'mon, we gotta move."

Dean groaned and muttered something incomprehensible, blinking sluggishly.

"Dean?" Sam pressed, desperation mounting.

"Good skin…" the Annis hissed, turning her head from side to side, considering both Sam and Dean.

Dean winced as he twisted his head towards her. His nose wrinkled in disgust as he took in her elongated, yellowed pointed teeth and the white eyes. "Yeah, well I'm sure you're real beautiful on the inside, lady."

She shrieked, clawed hands extended and lunged.

Suddenly, the darkness erupted into pale pink. Sam covered his eyes as the light burnt his sensitive retinas. It was a flare. His brain recognised the thing but refused to make sense of it. The Annis screamed, but this time it was primal. Pain and anguish resounded in her voice as the flare hit her fully in the chest. She clawed frantically at her torso and then exploded. Dean threw himself on top of Sam, shielding him with his body, but even so he felt bits of flesh rain down, and smelt the sickly stench of burnt flesh.

Once the light had died down, Dean uncurled himself from Sam and flopped onto his back taking ragged breaths, his fingers gingerly probing his bloodied head.

Sam didn't move at all. He couldn't have moved even if he wanted to. He was exhausted and felt strangely detached from everything.

"Flare guns?" Dean winced, wiping his bloodied fingers on his jeans. "Remind me to try that one, Sammy."

Rolling his head across the snowy ground, Sam shifted his gaze around the trees, his eyes locking on his father.

John was staring at the spot where the Annis had just been standing, flare gun still raised, his entire stance radiating anger. If possible, he was even scarier than Dean had been. Sam had never seen his father look so furious, had never seen that much emotion from the man and it scared him.

John seemingly broke out his spell and moved over to the boys. His eyes roved over both of them, cataloguing injuries.

"How bad?" John demanded, his eyes looking suspiciously moist. There was no accusation there, no hint of anger, just plain, candid relief.

Sam blinked incredulously, sliding half-mast lids between his father and brother. "You came…"

John laughed a short sharp sound, but it was Dean who spoke. "Who else is gonna do the research, geek boy?"

Sam smiled but his eyes stayed fixed on his dad.

John dropped onto the snow beside Sam, glancing at Dean whose nod assured him he was okay. He zeroed in on Sam's shoulder, then his arm before settling on his bruised torso. Carefully, he helped Sam sit forward, mindful of his injuries. Swallowing hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, John pulled Sam in to his chest and embraced him tightly. Sam was momentarily taken off guard by the act. He knew his father loved him but, for Winchesters, such public shows of affection were rare. Safe in his father's arms, Sam finally relaxed.

Reluctantly, John pulled back so he could examine his son further.

Running his hands over the side of Sam's face, John let out a long breath, "Where are you hurt?"

Where wasn't he hurt? Sam thought dryly, his entire torso giving a throb of pain for emphasis.

"I'm ok," Sam said quietly. "Russell… You should check on him." Sam winced as his father gently probed his bruised face.

John nodded, standing so that he could shrug out of his coat. Between the three of them they managed to pull Sam forward so they could put it on.

"Jesus, Sammy, what the hell did that frigging bitch do to you?" Dean was examining Sam's torn shoulder. Caleb had dressed it, but there was blood spotting the gauze, probably caused by her dragging him through the woods. Dean pulled Sam further forward and studied his torn back. "This is gonna leave a mark."

Sam didn't give a shit about scarring. He just wanted a hot shower, a bed and a hot meal, although for the moment he'd settle for getting out the Hills. Dean helped guide Sam's wooden arms into the sleeves and pulled the zipper up once it was in place. He also pulled the hood over Sam's head and gave him a small smile. The inside of the jacket was warm and smelled of John. Sam let his head sink back against his brother's chest, too exhausted, too hurt to move any more. Adrenaline had fled leaving him shaky and bone weary. His brother and father were here and, for the first time, Sam felt safe.

"Hey, eyes open!" Sam blinked, not realising he had shut them and slid his gaze towards Dean. His brother was smiling but there was a hint of worry in his expression. "I'm starting to think you _are_ narcoleptic."

"We need to get him warm and get out of the hills," John said, moving towards Russell and kneeling beside the man. "God knows how long he's been out here for."

"Long enough for that bitch to make him into a patchwork quilt," Dean muttered darkly.

"Don't chicks dig scars?" Sam murmured sluggishly, throwing the familiar line back at his brother.

Dean rolled his eyes, "Yeah but they don't dig the Frosty the abused Snowman look."

Dean rubbed his hands up and down his arms. It helped a little, but Sam had been in the cold for too long. It was going to take a hell of a lot more than some warm clothes to get him feeling human again.

Sam nodded slowly, his teeth chattering together. "H-help Russ," he stuttered. "He hit his head… pretty hard."

"We will, Sammy." Dean took Sam's face in his hands and twisted his head to examine the damage to his face, wincing at the bruises and grazes.

Sam nodded slowly, letting his brother pull him closer, warmed by the embrace.

"I hate camping," Sam trembled.

"Yeah, me too, Sammy," Dean agreed, "me too."


	12. Chapter 12

AN - I apologise for the huge length of time between chapters. My personal life went a bit crazy and then my muse went wherever my sanity went (although my sanity came back briefly without my muse). This chapter was like pulling teeth - only more painful to write. I really hope it works and that you guys enjoy it.

Huge thanks to Leigh who made this actually make sense. Your assistance is always apprieciated. All further mistakes are mine - although hopefully there are none.

Dedicated as always to my wonderful friend Jenilee.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

_**The Black Hills, South Dakota**_

_**Wed 13 March 1996, Dusk**_

Dean had never really understood the phrase 'heart in your throat' until now.

The fear he felt when he saw the Black Annis towering over his brother was indescribable. Rage and terror ripped through him, threatening to overwhelm all rational thought. It was only sheer protective instinct that had pushed Dean to slam into the bitch and shove her away from Sam. Nothing was ever hurting his brother_ again_.

The relief at finding Sam in one piece was overwhelming. In fact, Dean was finding it difficult to maintain his façade at all. He knew Sam was okay, but even the thought of how close he had come to losing his brother was threatening to take his legs out from under him. Dean had never wanted to believe Sam was dead, but a small part of his mind had betrayed him, had whispered in his ear that his brother was never coming back. He was desperately shoving that part into a box and hiding it away in the vaults of his mind, not wanting to ever deal with that eventuality again.

"Dean…?" Sam's whimper was more than enough to drag him out of his reverie and return his attention to his brother.

Sam was engulfed by John's worn leather jacket and his dark bangs fell over rheumy eyes. Blood and bruises were smeared across his all-too-pale skin making his appearance ghastly. Dean's stomach clenched, an abject sense of failure settling in icy chunks. No matter which way Dean cut it, he had let down his brother. Sam was a mess and it was his fault.

"What is it Sammy?" Dean asked, choking back his emotions, hoping for a reprieve from his guilt that only Sam could grant him.

A cold hand circled his wrist and, when Dean raised his eyes, dull hazel orbs were studying him.

"Not your fault," Sam murmured. He ran his tongue over cracked lips, his eyelids sliding to half mast as he struggled to keep awake. Dean wasn't sure if it was Sam's injuries or his illness pushing him into snooze mode but, either way, it didn't bode well. He was about to tap his brother's cheek when Sam forced his eyes open fully and said slowly, "None of this is…"

Dean scowled, and inwardly cursed his brother's ability to read him. He shouldn't have been surprised, though. He could read Sam just as well.

"I left you there, Sam," Dean said quietly, pushing the words through unfeeling lips, the bitter truth weighing heavily on his shoulders. "I should've made Dad take you to Pastor Jim's or Bobby's. If anything had–" Dean broke off, not willing to let his mind wade through that explosive minefield.

Sam was beaten and broken, but he was alive. Dean had to remember that rather than dwelling on the 'what ifs'. He could fix the physical injuries; he could put his brother back together again, mend his cuts and heal his bruises, but the mental scars…? Well, Dean knew they would take longer to heal. There was no doubt in his mind that his brother would experience at least a few nightmares over the coming months. Dean was pretty sure this whole situation would give him a few nightmares of his own.

Raising his head, Dean flicked his gaze across the clearing to where Russell had fallen. The older hunter needed some persuasion to wake up, but it looked as if he was finally starting to rouse with John's assistance. Dean said a silent thank you; he hadn't relished the idea of telling Joshua his Dad was…

He sighed deeply and scrubbed a hand over his face. This whole hunt had been a disaster of epic proportions. This was the kind of bad luck that could only be associated with being a Winchester. It was part of their family curse – Dean was certain of it. Nothing they ever did was simple, and it meant Dean had to be more vigilant when it came to Sam. He'd failed this time. He'd let his guard down and the cost was too high. Dean had lost too much already. He wouldn't lose his brother too.

"I should've protected you, Sammy," Dean whispered, his brow furrowing deeply. The words didn't come easily but Dean needed to say them, needed to tell his brother he was sorry. He needed forgiveness.

The small, cold hand circling his wrist increased its grip.

"Dean… stop." Sam attempted to fix him with a patented Sammy Winchester stare, but his expression was laced with exhaustion that undermined its usual power. "You couldn't have known about the Annis… no one could."

_Not even Dad…_

Sam didn't say the words but Dean heard them all the same: Don't blame each other – or yourselves - for this. _Easier said than done, Sammy._ Dean was already drowning in self-recrimination.

Clearing his throat, Dean shifted uncomfortably under his brother's gaze. "You think you can move?" Dean changed the subject, not wanting to get into this discussion any further. Sam would never blame him, and Dean could do nothing but hold himself responsible.

Sam's expression dropped momentarily before he managed to pull the mask back into place, but Dean had seen it. Sam was cold, tired and in pain and he didn't think he could do this.

"Yeah, I can move." Sam licked his lips and pulled his brow in tightly but he didn't make an attempt to do so. He did, however, shift closer to Dean, seemingly drawing on his brother's very presence to give him strength.

Dean didn't say a word as Sam's fingers curled into his jacket. He also didn't mention the underlying sceptical tone that bled through his brother's assurance, or the fact his jaw clenched at the pain he knew was to come. Guilt clawed at Dean, ate away what little resolve he had left to keep it together. Rationally he knew none of this was his fault, but making his heart believe that was another matter entirely.

"I guess Josh can kiss his security deposit goodbye," Dean muttered, glancing over at his father as he continued to coax Russell awake. Dean could only imagine the mess the Annis had made when she'd dragged Sam out of the cabin and, in spite of everything, Dean did feel bad that Joshua was going to lose his money. Especially considering it was money he'd worked to earn.

"Why d'ya say that?" Sam asked shivering. Dean unzipped his bag and dug around inside for a pair of socks. Finding them, he unrolled them and slipped them over his brother's hands. Not as stylish as gloves, but hey, they would suffice for now.

"Well, I'm guessing Grandma wasn't too careful about taking her shoes off when she rampaged through the cabin."

Sam's eyes lowered and his expression was… sheepish.

Dean's head tilted questioningly. "Sammy?" His voice was stern, authoritative even in his need for answers.

Hazel eyes rose to meet his. Sam sighed deeply. "The cabin is fine, Dean."

"Because…?" Dean pushed, rolling his hand in the air, encouraging his brother to continue. And then it hit him. "Because you weren't in the cabin when she grabbed you, were you?"

Dean couldn't keep the anger out of his voice. He'd been pulling his hair out thinking he had failed his brother, that he hadn't left enough protection or that he should have stayed with him when Sam had actively disobeyed orders.

"Dean-" Sam started, but Dean cut him off before he had a chance to talk his way out of this.

"Me and Dad are tearing ourselves to pieces thinking we left you behind to be that things chew toy and _you_ _weren't even in the frigging cabin_? The nice, warm cabin with a ton of weapons that could have _stopped_ this from getting this far, that could have kept you safe."

Sam frowned deeply at Dean's tone. "I had to leave."

"What part of stay in the cabin didn't you understand?" Dean growled.

"The part where I thought you and Dad were in trouble," Sam snapped and then softened his voice. "You're not the only one who gets to be worried, Dean. Every time you both leave for a hunt I have to wait and pray you come back. Do you have _any_ idea how hard that is?"

Dean glanced over his shoulder at his father, unable to maintain eye contact with Sam. John was immune to the kicked puppy look – almost - but Dean _couldn't_ ignore it. Not only that, but Sam's words hit a chord. Dean _could_ imagine how hard it was to be left behind. If he was in Sam's position, he probably would have packed up and followed them on every hunt. Not that he was telling his brother that, but he found his anger melting a little.

"You gonna tell Dad?" Sam asked, his sluggish gaze following Dean's.

"No," Dean sighed. It didn't change anything, and really what was the point in getting Sam into trouble? They had enough crap to deal with without him and John getting into a spat in the middle of frigging nowhere. Not that his little brother was getting away with such stupid behaviour. Dean filed the information away. He'd have words with Sam about this once they got back to the safety of Deadwood.

"Winchester?" Russell Turner's bewilderment pulled Dean's gaze back over his shoulder towards his father. "That you?"

"Yeah, Russ," John said quietly, his expression unreadable through the murky darkness, but Dean heard a hint of weariness in his tone. "You think you can get up? We need to get moving. Joshua is waiting for us with Caleb."

"Josh?" Russell asked, pushing his hands under him and trying to sit. He didn't get far, although Dean wasn't sure if it was Russ's own body refusing to co-operate or John's firm grip on his shoulders. "He ok?"

"Josh is better than you right now, old man," John muttered.

"Damn kid," Russell scowled, one hand reaching for his blood slicked temple. He winced as he skimmed over the gash. "Why in the hell did yer let him come up here in the first place?"

"He was worried about you," John said. His tone was level but Dean recognised a dangerous lilt to it. "Would you rather I left him to do this crap alone?"

Russell grunted, "Probably would've done a better job alone."

"What the hell does that mean?" John's tone was still deceptively neutral but Dean was already preparing to get to his feet and drag his father off Russ if necessary. He'd seen his dad go off the deep end for less.

Russell snorted. He had managed to push himself into a sitting position, one hand clamped to the side of his head, the other pressed into the snowy ground. His thin t-shirt was soaked through but if Russell was aware of it, he didn't show it.

"This hunt was jack-shit to do with Josh – or you for that matter."

John's expression hardened. "If I hadn't come in on this hunt, your son wouldn't have found enough of you to bury."

"Bullshit. Me an' Caleb were doin' just fine till you assholes showed up. I had to pull your boy's ass outta a whole host of shit. A whole host of shit that kid had no reason to be involved in."

"And I've never saved Josh's ass?" John bit, his temper finally getting the better of him.

"Joshua is twenty-six. Your boy is twelve – _twelve_." Russell grunted, shaking his head a little. "That's no age for a kid to be livin' this damn life. What the hell are you thinkin' John?"

John's lips twisted into a snarl. "I seem to recall your own son was younger when you hit the road."

Dean heard Russell growl under his breath. "Another two seconds, and you'd have bin scrapin' what was left of your son off the goddamn floor. Don't act like this rescue crap was planned. It was pure dumb friggin' luck that I reached that damn cave in time."

Russell let out a remorseful sigh and glanced over towards Dean and Sam, "I made a helluva lot of bad choices, Winchester - don't repeat 'em with your kids. It ain't worth it in the long run to have a boy who don't respect you."

John met Dean's eyes for a moment before turning his attention back to Russell. Dean shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny, no matter how brief it had been. He probably should have offered reassurance that his father had done a good job with them, but holding his hurt brother in his arms, Dean couldn't find it in him to come to John's defence. Not right now.

Returning his attention to Sam, Dean carefully moved towards his right side, avoiding his left completely. He didn't want to aggravate his shoulder or arm any more than he had to. He hadn't seen the extent of the damage underneath the makeshift bandage, but the way in which Sam cradled the limb to his torso suggested it was painful. Dean cringed inwardly as he let his gaze wander over the rest of Sam's body. John's jacket now hid the thick slashes down Sam's back, the claw marks down his shoulder and the mottled bruising to his torso. Dean hadn't dared to remove the t-shirt wrapped around Sam's arm either, afraid of what he would see underneath it. He had no idea if it was caused by the Annis but he didn't want to see the extent of the wound in case it was bad – too bad to be fixed.

There were other injuries that Dean could see, however, and they looked painful as hell. A gauze pad was taped to Sam's temple, crusted with a mixture of dried blood and grime. There was further bruising to Sam's face, his cheeks swollen and distorted, various cuts and nicks littering his neck. Dean didn't even know if that was the full extent of Sam's wounds and now wasn't exactly the time to play doctor. They had to get the hell out of this place now. As long as Sam wasn't bleeding out, everything else could be dealt with.

Sliding his arm around his brother's waist, Dean braced himself as he pulled all five foot five of his younger sibling off the snow-covered ground. Sam came upright with a groan and a wobble. His legs didn't seem to want to hold him up and Dean could feel him trembling as he fought to find his equilibrium.

Dean shifted his grip to hold his brother more securely. "Take it easy, Sammy," he murmured as Sam tightened his own grasp on Dean's jacket, his head dropping onto his chest, his eyes squeezing shut to stave off dizziness.

"How you feelin' son?" Russell's voice had Dean and Sam both raising their eyes, although Sam's gaze was unfocused and tight. Joshua's father was on his feet now, too, wincing and leaning heavily on John. The dried blood on the side of his face stood out starkly against his pallid complexion.

"I'm ok," Sam said quietly. Dean couldn't help but think "ok" was being more than a little optimistic. Ok wasn't even close to where his brother was at right now.

"Gotta say I didn't think we were gettin' out of that damn mess in one piece, kid," Russell said, letting out a tired breath. "Glad we both beat the odds."

Sam gave him a weary smile. They weren't safe yet and Dean was certain his brother was all too aware that they still had a long way to go till they were.

"Time to make tracks," John said. His eyes had been appraising Sam carefully, probably checking to make sure his youngest was really ok and in one piece. After a moment, he swivelled his gaze towards Dean. He didn't say a word, but he didn't have to. Dean knew what that look meant.

_Look after your brother. Keep him safe._

Dean didn't need to be told to look after Sam. He'd been looking after his brother his whole life, but he gave his father a brief nod anyway.

_Orders received. _

Satisfied, John turned his attention back to the darkness engulfing the trees.

Dean peered through the inky blackness, too, and frowned deeply. He'd instinctively honed in on Sam's panicked voice but, now, he had no idea which way he had come from. He was hoping his Dad had had enough sense to remember the route taken.

Glancing down at his watch, using his small flashlight to illuminate the dial, John studied it for a moment before raising his eyes to the sky.

The horizon suddenly lit up, an explosion of neon pink washing down on a navy canvas. John nodded slowly, his expression relieved.

"This way," he said, pulling Russell in the direction of the flare. Dean watched the sky for a moment until it was engulfed by the darkness once more.

"Josh?" he questioned, sliding his eyes towards his father. John nodded and started the walk back through the trees. Of course it had been Joshua. John took the mantra of 'Be Prepared' to a whole new level, but still it caught Dean off guard how farsighted his father could be at times.

Dean readjusted his grip on Sam and followed, half dragging, half carrying his younger sibling. Sam was practically thrumming next to him, his entire body vibrating with what Dean suspected was a mixture of cold, loss of adrenaline and pain. Dean had examined the injuries he could see but, judging from how much Sam was struggling to keep himself upright, he wondered if his brother was hiding some wounds beneath his jeans. Not that the kid complained once. Sam kept moving, kept soldiering on. He was another one who took mantras to a whole new level, only he was reciting the John Winchester mantra of 'suck it up' over and over in his head. Sometimes Dean found himself questioning his father's ideologies.

Dean's own head was throbbing and his vision a long way from 20:20, but he could deal with his own injuries later, once Sam was safe – once they were all safe. This had been close, too goddamn close, and Dean didn't want to ever repeat the sickening fear he'd felt with his brother missing again. A groan from Sam brought his attention back to reality.

"You need to stop?" Dean asked anxiously, tightening his grip on Sam's wrist, pulling his brother's arm further around his own shoulders.

"No," Sam murmured, his head lowering as he bit on his lip. It had to be painful as hell walking on so many injuries and Dean felt a small swell of pride at his brother's resolve.

"If I stop now… won't get started… 'gain." Sam's voice slurred as he spoke and was laced with pain that hit Dean hard.

Jesus, what the hell had his brother gone through? Dean wished he could bring that bitch back to life just so he could kill her again.

Readjusting his grip on Sam's good arm and his waist, Dean continued forward. He had to give his brother credit; he was doing his best to stay upright, and keep moving. His legs buckled a couple of times and Dean had to take most of his weight, but Sam was upright, and breathing. That was more than enough - for now.

* * *

Joshua was pissed – not that this was anything new; Joshua had been pissed since this entire debacle started. He was, however, now experiencing a whole new level of pissed that far transcended his earlier dip into irritation. In fact, Joshua was about ready to strangle someone – and that someone was John Winchester.

The bastard had just taken off and left him in the middle of the woods with no option other than to stay put. But that wasn't what had pissed him off; it was Winchester's barked orders, his frigging demands that had completely irritated the hell out of Josh.

Former Marine… _Former_ _my ass_, Josh thought furiously. The jerk hadn't been a marine for over twenty years and yet he still ran his hunts like military operations. Ok, so it was that military discipline that had kept them alive but it didn't leave much room for partnership. John was in command and if Joshua had once had any illusions to the contrary, he no longer did.

Glancing down at Caleb's still form, he resisted the urge to growl an expletive at John. What the hell was he supposed to do? Run off into the woods after him and leave Caleb to the mercy of whatever the hell was stalking them? It didn't seem to matter to the dumb asshole that it wasn't just his kids out there, but Russell, too. John's vision tunnelled when it came to his boys and under normal circumstances, Joshua would have understood John's actions, but not when his father was out there, too. Like John, Joshua's priority was his family.

Scowling, Joshua tapped the flare gun against his thigh, trying to hold his anxiety at bay. It was empty now. He'd fired both rounds as John had demanded, each at half-hour intervals, but he hadn't left. That was one part of the barked orders Joshua refused to comply with. He couldn't leave until both his father and John's boy were safe. The fact John had expected otherwise was a testament to how far off the reservation the asshole could go when it came to dealing – or not dealing as the case was – with threats to his small family unit. Not that John had to reiterate the importance of family to Josh. He'd lost everyone he'd ever given a shit about when he was seven – everyone but Russell. His father was a frigging pain in his ass, but he was still his father, and Joshua would have laid his life down for the man, just as John would have done for his kids.

Joshua sighed deeply, shifting anxiously between his feet as he curled gloved fingers further around the flare gun. He understood John's actions because he would have done the same if he'd been given the chance, but that didn't mean he had to like what John had done to him. In fact, Joshua was debating smacking the bastard in the face when he reappeared.

"Josh." He spun at the sound of his name, his heart thrumming frantically even as he recognised the silhouette stalking towards him. John had said his name carefully, no doubt giving Joshua a heads up that he was approaching, but there was something more in it. For a moment, Josh wondered if the older hunter was worried what Josh's reaction was going to be. He might have stopped to analyse it further, but at that moment every coherent thought he was capable of dribbled out of his skull.

"Dad…" He flicked his flashlight over the figure wrapped around John's lean frame, and let the relief wash over him. He forgot his anger momentarily. Both his hands reached out and fisted into his father's t-shirt, his eyes searching the older man's face. He looked whole, but with Russell nothing was ever as it seemed. "You… ok?"

It came out hesitantly, but the slight nod of his father's head was enough to assure Joshua. The breath he'd been seemingly holding in since he'd found out Russell had embarked on this crazy mission was finally able to escape through barely parted lips.

"You gonna stand there and gawk at me, or find me a damn sweatshirt in that bag of yours?" Russell rubbed his hands up and down his bare arms. "I'm friggin' freezin'."

Joshua stared at him for a moment, his incredulity plastered across his face for all to see. Shaking his head, he laughed sharply before shrugging his pack off his shoulder and pulling back the zipper with more force than was necessary.

"You know, people nearly died up here 'cause of your crap, Russell, and that's all you gotta to say?"

Russell gave him a long look. "We're hunters, kid. Shit happens. That don't mean you have to haul ass after me every time I go into somethin' a little sticky."

Joshua raised a brow, torn between smacking his father and embracing his safe return. Instead he settled for slamming one of his clean sweatshirts into his chest. "You selfish asshole."

Russell shrugged nonchalantly, "Probably, but I've saved a helluva lotta people, including you, over the years by bein' a selfish asshole. I can live with it."

Joshua loved his father but, God, sometimes he didn't like him very much. He suddenly felt seven years old again, being told to stop whining because Russell was leaving for a week or so to exorcise some demon somewhere. The memories of motel rooms, days spent alone and frightened, came unbidden and hit him hard. Joshua tried to school his features, tried to push his hurt and relief and his anger down but he knew he'd failed because when Russell spoke his voice was softer.

"Everyone's ok, son," he said, "_I'm_ ok." And that was the measure of it.

Joshua might have been twenty-six, but that didn't stop him worrying. Growing up, it had always been in the back of his mind that if Russell didn't come back from an exorcism or a cleansing then he was alone in the world. That pit in his stomach didn't vanish over night just because he was now a man capable of looking after himself.

"Save the reunion for when we're out of here, guys." John released his hold on Russell, watching him momentarily to make sure the hunter stayed on his feet. Satisfied he wasn't going to face-plant, John moved towards Caleb, crouching beside the makeshift litter and examined the pallid-faced man.

Joshua gave his father a long look before he turned to John, his gaze hard.

"You stupid son of a bitch," he growled. He was grateful as hell that John had brought his father back in one piece, but he was still pissed about being left. "You _ever_ pull a damn stunt like that again-"

John raised brown eyes to him, his expression hard and unforgiving. "I don't have time to hold your hand, kid, so deal with it. I did what I had to."

"You left me here to go after a crazy bitch. You could have gotten everyone killed – including your damn self."

"Well I didn't."

Joshua shook his head furiously. He knew he was taking a lot of his anger and frustration with Russell out on John, but he couldn't stop himself. He was pissed enough with John to allow the words to flow unrestrained. He needed the emotional release.

"No way, John, you don't get to pull shit like that and expect me to just fall into line like a good little soldier."

"Joshua," Russell began, the single word a warning to let it go. But Josh was in no mood for a reprimand.

"Don't you _Joshua_ me," he snapped, stabbing a finger in his father's direction, "I haven't even started with you, old man."

Russell muttered something under his breath, but, mercifully, didn't push it. Joshua was grateful as hell for that. He wasn't sure what he would say – or do – in anger.

John climbed back to his feet and turned to face Joshua. He was around the same height, possibly an inch taller, but it felt as if he towered over him. John had a presence that Joshua had never come across. A sensible man might have stepped off, might have backed down against John, but Joshua had never been known for being sensible.

He met John's steely gaze with one just as cold. He knew John was a good hunter, and would have usually followed the older man's advice on a hunt but this wasn't a normal gig, and Joshua's emotions were frayed enough to allow his tongue a life of its own.

"You're an arrogant son of a bitch, you know that?"

John didn't say anything. He merely studied Joshua carefully, his lips pulling into a tight line.

"We don't have time for your tantrum," John said finally, his voice a low growl in the back of his throat. "We've picked up a tail."

That momentarily stunned Joshua. He blinked, glancing past John to the boys and his father. They were all watching the exchange, but Joshua was pretty certain none of them had heard John's revelation.

"The Black Annis is still coming?" Joshua asked equally quiet, his eyes sliding back to John's face.

"She's dead. But the wolf has our scent. He followed us back through the trees, keeping his distance, but close enough to let me know he's a problem."

Joshua automatically slid his gaze around the dark woodland.

"Well that's just fucking fantastic," Joshua muttered irritably. "You know how to kill it, right?"

John nodded and ran a hand down his face. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and then pursed them together before dropping his head a little with a sigh.

"I need you to hold it together, to ignore that you're pissed with me and your father right now." John spoke softly, his voice barely carrying to Josh despite how closely he was stood to him. "Sam's hurt pretty badly, Russ has a concussion that should have felled an ox and Caleb…" John let out a tired sounding breath and scrubbed a hand across his chin. "I can kill the wolf, but we're not exactly running on full engines here. This thing…? It's not stupid. It'll split us up, take the weaker ones first – probably starting with my son – so we need to get out of here. Fast. And I can't do that if I'm too busy wiping your ass, Junior."

Joshua clenched his teeth together and nodded. "Fine, but we're talkin' bout this goddamn _Junior_ shit when we get out of here," Joshua threatened flatly before he frowned. "You said he? You've seen it?" Discreetly, he shifted his gaze around the clearing but couldn't make anything out through the cloying darkness.

John gave him a wry smile. "I'm good at what I do, Josh."

Joshua had never doubted that. "If it's coming, why not meet it head on Johnny? With the element of surprise, shit, we might even get out of this thing in one goddamn piece." Joshua raked his fingers through his long hair and sucked on the inside of his cheek. "I don't like the idea of this friggin' thing stalkin' us."

"Sam's been exposed for God knows how long – your father too. Not to mention Caleb is bleeding out." John shook his head. "No. We keep moving. If it follows and engages us, then I'll kill it."

"An' if it doesn't? We ain't just gonna leave this thing up here, are we?"

"I'll handle the wolf." John gave him a smile that chilled Joshua to the bone before turning back to the group. "Ok, Russ, Sam? You think you can keep moving?"

"Got all the way to that bitch's lair on the headache from hell, Winchester," Russell muttered. "I think I can manage a few miles back to town."

"Sam?" John questioned.

Joshua almost rolled his eyes. Like the kid would say no. They were up shit creek with no boat and definitely no paddle. There was only one stretcher and, although they could have made another one, Russell and Dean couldn't have pulled it. Russell was swaying like a drunk and Joshua noticed for the first time that Dean's face was caked in blood. The boy had no choice but to walk.

"Yeah… I can walk," Sam murmured, his brow furrowed in pain. Joshua was sure he was only upright because of the death grip his brother had on him.

"He'll be fine," Dean added, shooting John a meaningful look that suggested he would carry his brother out if necessary.

"Load up with silver rounds. Shoot first, ask questions later," John said, his gaze roaming momentarily before locking onto a stand of trees to the left of the group. He kept his eyes focused there, as if sensing something in the darkness. Josh followed his gaze, trying to see what the hell he was looking at but couldn't make out a damn thing in the failing light. Cold fingers brushed up his spine, however, at John's tight-lipped expression. "Let's haul ass."

* * *

He could smell the blood. Thick, cloying and honey sweet. Tipping his head back into the air, the wolf inhaled it deeply and felt a tingle spread throughout his body. It was consuming, addictive, and he wanted to taste it.

Stalking through the darkness, the wolf moved towards the edge of the trees, keeping to the shadows. He didn't want to get caught, but it was too tempting. He was too close to them. He hunched his shoulders, prowling through the undergrowth, hissing and snarling. He tried to control himself but it was so difficult. He could hear their hearts beating loudly in his ears, the steady rhythmic thump, thumping of blood pumping around warm, fleshy bodies. He let out a shaky breath. He was close, so close.

Peering through the underbrush at the group of men, the wolf closed his eyes and bit on his lip. Five of them… six including the man in the stretcher. Too many for him to take on, but the wolf was desperate enough to try it. He would have them. He would taste them, would tear out their still beating hearts and bathe in their blood. But not yet. He had to bide his time, wait for the right moment to strike. Patience was a virtue he had plenty of.

He recoiled suddenly.

One of them was staring directly at him, locked onto him despite the thick darkness engulfing the area.

For a moment he thought the man was simply looking in his direction, but the wolf realised that it was more than that. The man knew he was in the trees, hiding, waiting. He was tall, dark haired but his eyes… He was a predator through and through. The wolf tilted his head to the side and considered the man. His lips tugged into a grin. The wolf closed his eyes and smiled. This made things interesting.


	13. Chapter 13

AN - Thanks to Leigh for the beta. As always, you make my work more readable.

Dedicated to Jenilee. For those of you who like audio fics, I've had my first SPN story, The Watcher, made into a podfic book by Jenilee. The first part is completed up to chapter 15 and we're working on the second half 16-26. She's worked really hard on it, and done a fantastic job, and so you should listen and let her know how completely awesome she is. Read more about it at http : / / ajcaddick . livejournal . com / 10483 . html

Thanks to Dani, Kat, and the EB for keeping me sane and reminding me that I'm not an illiterate moron, and for gently poking... or shoving me to write more.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

_**The Black Hills, South Dakota**_

_**Wed 13 March 1996, Nightfall**_

John Winchester was a hunter who had hunted everything imaginable – and many unimaginable everything's, too. But this job seemed different. It wasn't like any other case he had ever worked on.

The wolf had been tracking them for the last thirty minutes, staying close, but just out of sight. It was making John twitchy. This werewolf was clever, cunning - and persistent. It seemed more Wendigo than wolf.

Experience told him it should have backed off by now, given up. But it hadn't. It was still stalking them.

Shifting the stretcher poles between his hands, trying to keep a grip on the flashlight sandwiched between his right palm and the pole, John scanned the darkened trees. He knew it was out there, whether he could see it or not.

He swallowed hard. It was following them, waiting for them to screw up, waiting to pick them off one by one. Half of the group was hurt and easy pickings. John knew if this thing attacked, there was a chance he and Joshua wouldn't be able to save everyone. That thought made his stomach roil.

The moon had slid behind the clouds a while ago, plunging them into darkness and the four flashlights they had between them were barely illuminating the ground in front of them. John felt exposed, blind, and completely unprepared for this hunt. Sighing, he pulled his left foot out of a deep drift and set it down again, ignoring the loud crunch it made as it sank into the snow.

This shit was exactly what John tried to avoid. It was why he didn't bring Sam on the majority of his hunts. His youngest seemed to have a flare for finding trouble and John wanted to protect him from that. He wanted to keep his child safe for as long as he could.

He was only twelve for Christ sake. _Twelve_. He didn't need to know about monsters or how to fight them. John regretted many of his decisions, but mostly, he regretted not allowing Sam – and Dean for that matter – to be a kid for longer. Nine years old had been too young to lose that innocence. Nine years old had been too young to hold a gun. Nine years old had been too young to realise that the monster in the closet could actually exist. John should never have put that shit onto a child – onto _his_ child. He should never have let Sam into this world. He wished he'd lied about it for longer. He wished he'd protected his boys more. He wished… he wished he'd been a better father.

Sam would argue he was old enough to know, to be in this world, to come on these hunts, but John knew how badly things could go. This one was a perfect example. Sam was, hurt and traumatized.

And that was distracting John; he was focused more on his children's welfare than on the beast tracking them, and that could get them all killed. But how could he _not_ put his kids first? His youngest was a mess; God, the Black Annis had tried to _flay_ Sam alive. And Dean, whom he often relied on for backup, he didn't look much better than Sam.

The war between hunter and father raged within him; the hunter wanting to charge after the wolf and blast him out of existence, the father wanting simply to get the hell out of The Hills and get his boys to safety.

John physically shook himself, knowing what he had to do – keep his eyes peeled for the beast and keep their battered group moving. He could play worried father later, once they were all safe and warm in a hospital.

_Then something moved… _

It caught his eye, just on the edge of his peripheral vision. John's heart slammed against his ribs as he snapped his gaze towards the tree line. He didn't break stride but his palms felt slick against the poles of the stretcher. He couldn't see anything through the inky blackness and, for a brief second, he wondered if he had imagined the movement. When nothing happened, some of the tension in his shoulders melted but didn't disappear completely. Adrenaline was a resource he was definitely going to utilise.

Trudging across the snow-packed ground, John's eyes ceaselessly scanned the horizon, waiting for the inevitable strike. The problem was that he wasn't sure he could stop it.. When the attack came, John would have to drop the makeshift litter carrying the injured Caleb, drop his flashlight, reach for his gun and take aim in murky darkness.

John's heart twitched uncomfortably beneath his ribs at that thought. In that time, the wolf could have bitten his sons, could have ripped out their throats … God. He couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't. He just had to get his boys out of The Hills, and fast. Then, when they were safe, he would take care of the wolf.

Shadows moved and danced, taking on a life of their own beyond the reach of the flashlight beam. John saw the wolf in every single patch of darkness as his eyes struggled to focus. They had to keep moving. They had to stay in front of the thing.

A shadow to the left of the group shifted suddenly, rustling leaves. It might have been the wind, but John was certain it wasn't. His time in the military had taught him the skills he used to hunt after Mary's death and John had honed those skills in the years since. It _was_ the wolf.

He shifted his gaze towards the trees, sweat beading on the back of his neck. This thing was playing with them. He suddenly felt like the mouse in an elaborate scheme cooked up by the cat.

"Dad?" Dean's voice dragged him out of his reverie. Although he could only just make out his boys in the dark, he could hear them both panting heavily. "We gotta stop for a second."

John shifted his eyes around the darkness, resisting the urge to shine the beam into the trees. He hated being watched; the sensation of eyes on him made him squirm uncomfortably. He didn't want to stop, not when this thing was so close to them, but he could hear Sam's muted whimpering. The kid was obviously trying to keep quiet and failing miserably. The hunter in him gave way to the father. He needed to check on his youngest and see how he was doing.

John didn't say a word but his lowering of the litter informed the others he had acquiesced to Dean's request. Joshua lowered his end as John turned and crossed the short distance between the stretcher and his sons in three steps. Dean had lowered Sam onto the ground and was checking him over. John, flashlight in hand, shone the beam on his youngest son's face.

He had expected Sam to look bad, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of what faced him. In the last thirty minutes, Sam's condition had deteriorated considerably.

His face was covered in a sickly, sweaty pallor despite the sub-zero temperature, damp bangs dripping into his eyes from underneath the hat Joshua had pulled over his head. John could tell the kid was in pain and that he was trying not to lean too much on his brother. Still, it was obvious that Dean was the only thing keeping him upright. Each breath seemed to be harder than the last and John was worried by the rattling sound coming from his son's chest.

"You're wheezing," John said. He didn't like Sam's pallor at all.

"I'm ok, Dad. Just tired." Sam slid rheumy eyes towards him that suggested he was anything but fine.

"Yeah, obviously," Dean deadpanned.

Sam blinked a couple of times as if trying to keep awake. John's stomach clenched tightly at the sight.

"Sam? You dizzy?" he asked, seizing his youngest son's chin in his left hand to stop it lolling on his shoulders.

"Little," was the slurred response.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled suddenly. John's eyes slid sideways, his head remaining still as he heard a soft noise in the trees. Holding his breath, he raised his gaze as he heard it again and peered into the dark.

"Dad?" Dean frowned and followed his father's eye line.

John cleared his throat, turning his gaze from the trees back to his children. He needed to get them the hell out of Oz. He had treated Sam's injuries the best he could out here; his son's main problem was a mixture of exposure and shock. He needed to get Sam somewhere warm and get fluids into him, and he needed to do it quickly.

Sam was already displaying textbook hypothermia symptoms. He was confused, sluggish and trembling. He was also feverish, which wasn't so classically hypothermic and suggested something else was going on, either resulting from his chest infection or complications from his wound. It all had John's stomach doing somersaults.

"Can you keep moving?" John asked, pulling Joshua's hat further over Sam's head, tucking it around his ears so they were completely covered.

Sam licked his lips, his gaze rolling skyward as he took a shaky breath, shivering. "Yeah," he said slowly. "I think so…"

"Dad, this is crazy," Dean snapped, half-focused on the woodlands, half on his small family unit. John saw the slightest glimmer of apprehension in his eldest son's face as he paused on the area where John suspected the wolf was hiding. Dean pulled his eyes from the trees and refocused on his brother. He did spare John the briefest eye contact. It was less than a second, but John got Dean's message loud and clear: he knew the wolf was hiding, and he knew it was hiding where John suspected it was. He felt a swell of pride. He'd taught Dean well.

"Crazy or not, we have to keep moving," John replied carefully. He hadn't told Sam they were being stalked by Cujo's cousin. He didn't want to scare his son; Sam was already traumatised enough from his run in with the Black Annis.

"Sam's barely walking as it is and, unless civilization is just around the corner, he can't keep doing this!" Dean slid a meaningful glance towards the tree line before snapping his eyes back to John. "We need a new plan."

"I get that you're worried about your brother, Dean. I'm worried too, but I don't have time to fight with you about who is right and who is wrong on this one." John gave Dean a long hard glare, hoping it would shut the kid up. It had the opposite effect. When it came to Sam, Dean couldn't be cowed.

"You're _wrong_," Dean growled. "You're pushing him too hard."

"Problems?" Joshua's voice sounded behind them, the milky beam of his flashligh trailing the snow-covered ground.

John didn't speak for a moment, his eyes locked onto Sam. On the one hand he knew he was pushing his youngest far too hard, but he also knew he had no choice in the matter. This was a race for the finish line, and it was a race that the wolf could stop at any time. All the son of a bitch had to do was come out of hiding.

John didn't like this hunt. Control had been firmly stolen from him. He felt as if he had lost the upper hand and, as loathe as he was to admit it, he wasn't entirely sure he could protect his sons from this thing – although he would goddamn die trying.

His thoughts were splintered by a racking cough rumbling from deep within Sam's chest. John's own lungs ached as he watched his youngest gasp for breath, curling an arm around his torso in an attempt to buffer his bruised ribs, his torso heaving as he tried to suck in air around the spluttering. Dean latched onto his shoulders instantly, pulling his brother into his own frame as he supported the boy. It hurt John to see Sam suffering, to see the lines of pain clearly etched into his forehead, but there was little he could do about it out here. He was scared to give the boy painkillers because it could mask other problems and giving someone with respiratory problems opiate-based pain-relief was a death wish. On the other hand, the Tylenol he had given him might as well have been made of candy.

"Christ, Johnny," Joshua muttered under his breath once the coughing had subsided. "The kid sounds like a shade worse than death."

John glanced at him before sliding his brown eyes back to Sam. "I know you're hurting, son, but we need to keep moving."

"He's hurting, and he's burning up," Dean growled angrily. "I wanna get the hell out of Dodge too, but we're gonna have to come up with a better plan than just dragging his ass down the mountainside."

John wished they could have stayed and let his boy rest, but that simply wasn't an option. "Sam will be fine. Just keep him on his feet."

"Dad-" John recognised the petulant tone in his eldest son's voice, but it was Sam who stopped an argument from erupting.

"Not a kid, Dean … Said I was … fine."

Dean's expression clearly stated what he thought of Sam's assurances but he thankfully dropped the argument. John was grateful as hell he did. He had enough shit going on without fighting Dean too.

John watched as his eldest leaned over and placed a hand on Sam's cheek. "You're hot as hell."

Sam frowned at him, tossing his head a little to move his sweat-drenched bangs out of his eyes. "So … the girls say …" Sam murmured with a tired curl of his lips.

"Yeah, you're a regular heartbreaker, Casanova," Dean said with a grunt.

John was used to the banter between his boys but felt a stab of pride that they could still joke in their current situation.

"How much further you think it is to town?" Sam asked wearily.

"I don't know," Dean said, sounding regretful and also a little guilty.

"Should keep moving."

"Nah, we got time. Catch ya breath, short fry."

"You forget about the fact that _Zowie_ is behind us?" Sam said with a wry tilt of his head. John frowned, not understanding what Sam had said. He wondered absently if it was some kind of teen-speak.

"_Pet Semetary II_?" Dean raised a brow. "I would have gone with Stephen King's _Cujo_. Hell, Poky would have been better."

Even John was surprised that Dean remembered _The Poky Little Puppy_. It was a book he had been read by his mother as a boy, and John had read it to Dean before Mary had died. Judging from Sam's next words, Dean had managed to save the book from the fire and had read it to his brother also. John felt his throat constrict. Dean should never have played the parent. It was just another thing to add to the list of screw-ups he'd made raising his boys.

"Poky's not evil, Dean," Sam muttered and then sighed. "I know we're being followed by the werewolf."

"What wolf?" Dean asked, his voice light – too light. Sam glanced at him through sweaty hair.

John hadn't wanted Sam to know but it seemed he did and now that the truth was known, perhaps it would make things move more quickly with less argument.

"We don't have time to discuss it," John interrupted before Sam could respond. "Yes, we're being tailed by a werewolf. He's been on our asses for a while now. That's why we have to keep going." He gave Dean a brief glance, "Five minutes then we're moving again."

Joshua handed John a water bottle over his shoulder. He took it with murmured thanks, uncapping the lid and pressed it into Sam's hands, keeping a grip on it himself. Sam carefully tipped the bottle and, with John's assistance, drank greedily, spilling a fair amount down his chin.

"Take it easy," John warned, "You're dehydrated."

"Yeah, you don't wanna do a Linda Blair all over Dad," Dean said with a grin that was blatantly forced.

"I still think we should just take down the goddamn son of a bitch now," Russell muttered moving closer to the group. The older hunter was still swaying ever so slightly on his feet but he looked more alert than he had done earlier. John suspected he had a mild concussion but it was not too serious. He could certainly make it out of The Black Hills in one piece. "I hate havin' to look over my friggin' shoulder. Makes me goddamn twitchy. I say we face it, kill the bastard, then get the hell outta here."

John scrubbed a hand over his chin. It was a tempting plan, but John knew it was a fool's errand. There was no certainty that the wolf would engage them if directly challenged, and John wasn't about to waste precious time searching for the damn thing to try.

"Caleb's in shock, Sam's …" He licked his lips as he recapped the water and handed it back to Joshua. "They need a hospital, Russ, and unless this thing walks up to us and declares hunting season open, I'm not running around looking for it. My priority is my son and Caleb."

A shadow moved suddenly and shot across the small clearing in front of them. A blood-curdling howl echoed into the night air, followed by a deafening popping sound. It took John a nanosecond to realise Joshua had pulled his gun and attempted to shoot the creature as it had darted across their path.

"You see where the fuck it went?" Russ demanded, his breath ripping out in heavy pants, his flashlight scanning the trees, his own gun in his hand.

"Thing moved too damn fast," Joshua replied.

"Friggin' thing's toyin' with us," Russell growled. "When in the hell did _Lassie_ learn to play cat and mouse?"

John suspected it had always been that smart. He ignored Russell's continued ranting and instead focused his attention on his children. Dean had moved closer to Sam, his gun drawn, his eyes darting around frantically. Sam for his part didn't look particularly fazed and, in fact, John wondered if he was even aware of what had just happened.

"Get your brother on his feet, Dean," John said after a moment.

Dean didn't argue this time. He rolled his shoulder under Sam's armpit before circling his arm around his wrist. In a swift but gentle movement, he dragged his younger brother's arm around his neck and pulled him to his feet. John moved forward to assist but Dean waved him away.

"We need a plan here," Russell snarled, "I don't like goin' in half-cocked and hot footing it."

"We keep moving."

"Pretending this thing ain't out there ain't gonna make it so, Johnny," Joshua said quietly.

The tone pissed off John. He hadn't even _wanted_ to come on this damn hunt. He could have been at Bobby Singer's right now, drinking his whiskey, eating his goddamn food and sleeping in a proper bed.

"You called me in on this hunt to get your father out of this in one piece," John barked, "and that's what I'm doing, Josh! You don't like it then, by all means, stay here and face the wolf yourself. I'm getting my sons and Caleb out of here."

"C'mon, this plan is fucking ridiculous! We may as well invite the damn thing to kill us." Russ followed John as he moved back over to Sam, his arms raised from the side of his body in frustration. John, who had dropped to crouch in front of Caleb, twisted his head to look at the older hunter.

"You got a better plan, I'm all ears." John turned back to the unconscious arms dealer and tried to hold his frown at bay. Caleb's skin was a ghastly pallor. He looked awful. Cautiously, and gently, he placed two fingers on his throat and felt for his carotid pulse. It was thready and slow as hell. It had been racing last time John had checked the man. The fact it was slower was worrying, although John was grateful as hell he even had one. John had no idea how the man was still alive.

"I dunno, Winchester. All I know is that we're playing with fire here, and I don't wanna get burned." Russell dropped his hands onto his hips as he stared at the snow-covered ground.

"Me neither," John assured him, glancing up from the stretcher. It was taking all his resolve not to punch the man. John didn't say anything for a moment, counting to ten silently in his head before he let out a tremulous breath, "We need to keep moving," he repeated.

"Keeping moving? Like hell! I don't want that damn thing kicking dust behind us."

John's thin resolve snapped and his temper flared like a flickering candle suddenly given a fresh source of oxygen. "I nearly lost my son to this shit, so don't sit there on your holier-than-thou pedestal and dictate to me how I should be hunting this damn thing."

Russell scowled, his eyes locked onto John's but, after a moment, his shoulders wilted. "I guess we keep movin' then."

John let out the breath he'd been holding, shot a glance at his boys to make sure they were upright and then moved over to the end of stretcher. Checking Caleb once more, he picked his poles off the snowy ground and waited for Joshua to lift his end before continuing the gruelling walk back down the mountainside. He kept his eyes on the tree line.

He knew the wolf would attack, it was only a matter of time. John just had to be ready when that time came.

***

Sam had no idea how he was still upright. He was sure that it had something to do with his brother's death-grip around his waist because his legs seemed to have gone on vacation. His chest was aching, and every inhalation was like breathing in acid. In fact, he was struggling to get anything past the rattling phlegm that seemed to have collected in the back of his throat.

His body throbbed and felt too hot, and his skin prickled fiercely as a cold chill clawed up his arms and legs. His legs throbbed angrily and not from the wounds the Annis had inflicted. This was a different kind of pain. This was the dull thrumming of a sickening body, the unrelenting throbbing of cells infected deeply with illness. The small of his back was now aching, too, his hip bones pulsating. His previously raw throat felt scorched by fire. Sam wasn't sure what was hurting him more; his injuries or his infection.

"Sammy? You ok?" Dean's voice sounded hollow and Sam had to shake his head a little to clear the cotton wool from his head.

"Fine…" Sam assured him emphatically, despite the fact his chest was burning and breathing was nothing short of agony. His lungs felt as if they were being shredded layer by layer, but he wasn't telling his brother that. If he stopped – and Dean would want him to stop – there was no way in hell Sam would get started again. It was taking all the will he possessed as it was not to lie down and sleep. He had no idea how long they had been walking but they didn't seem to making much progress. The trees were still as thick here, and they were still high in the mountains. Sam's resolve to keep going was wearing thin, but he didn't want to let down his brother, or father. "I'm _fine_."

"I'm gonna ban that frigging word," Dean's muttered irritably as he adjusted his grip on Sam's wrist, dragging his brother's arm further around his neck. The movement made Sam's chest throb and he had to bite on his bottom lip to stop from whimpering.

"Dad's worried, isn't he?" Sam asked quietly, his eyes resting on his father's shadowy back.

Dean sighed deeply, shifting his arm under Sam's armpit, "Everything's fine, Sam."

"I thought you'd banned 'fine'." Sam snapped as he took a shaky step forward, the snow crunching beneath his feet. "You're a crappy liar, Dean."

The ground beneath him suddenly shifted. At least that was how it felt. Sam's legs folded beneath him and his knees sank into the snowy ground before Dean managed to get a hold of him. It was a testament to how tired Dean was that Sam hit the deck before Dean was able to hook his arms around him.

"Jesus," Dean murmured, pulling Sam into his torso. Momentarily drawing on the familiar warmth of his brother's embrace, Sam's eyes slid shut of their own volition, his head slipping into the crook where Dean's neck met his shoulder. "Sam? Sammy? Hey, hey, wakey wakey. This isn't the time to snooze, Sleeping Beauty."

A sharp stinging sensation rushed through his cheek. Sam blinked, gritty eyes snapping open. It took a moment but Dean came into focus, his fists curled around the lapels of John's all-too big leather jacket that Sam was wearing.

"You back among the land of the living?" It was said as a joke but there was little mirth in his words.

"Think so," Sam murmured.

Dean said something else, but the words were lost to Sam. Everything seemed to slow around him, and the darkness smeared together like a charcoal sketch that had gotten wet. Sam frowned at his brother, trying to make sense of the garbled nonsense tripping out of his mouth.

"I said can you stand." Dean matched Sam's own frown, but there was deep-seated worry marring his face. Sam realized he was still on the cold ground and that he hadn't made any attempt to get to his feet. He glanced at his denim-covered legs, willing them to move, but he couldn't bring himself to rise.

"I'm tired, Dean," Sam let out a weary breath. He was freezing but his skin prickled like he had a nasty case of sunburn.

Sam wasn't an idiot, he knew there was more at stake here than his own pain. Caleb was badly hurt, and had been injured protecting him. Sam knew there was a possibility the man could die if he didn't get help soon. And Russell was weaving like a drunken man on his feet, despite being stationary.

Sam's pain was inconsequential at this point. Whining about it just made him feel more like a burden.

"I know, Sammy, I know, but we gotta keep moving."

_The wolf…_

Sam had momentarily forgotten they were being hunted. He cast a sluggish eye around the darkness, half expecting to see it leaning back against a tree but he was met with inky blackness.

"Dean?" John's voice cracked through the night. Sam blinked and shifted his gaze. John was standing over them, a towering authority. Sam hadn't even heard or seen his father move. "What happened?"

"Just took a tumble. Give us a min," Dean said.

Sam's eyes drifted towards his brother and for the first time he noticed the something black crusted down the side of his face. He wasn't sure how he hadn't noticed it previously, but he felt guilty as hell for it.

"…You're bleeding." He heard the slur in his own voice but hoped no one else did. He already felt like the proverbial ball and chain around his father and brother's ankles. Dean wouldn't have sat down, he would have kept moving. Sam didn't want to let down his brother by being weak.

He pushed his uninjured hand underneath him, attempting to get to his feet, ignoring how much the limb shook. Dean's hand instantly clamped onto his shoulder, pushing him back down. Sam was grateful for it. He wasn't sure he would have managed to stand anyway.

"Sit down, short fry," Dean said softly, absently touching the fingers of his free hand to his head and examining the bloodied tips. "And quit worrying about me, I'm fine." The fact he didn't follow it with a joke worried Sam.

What happened next was so fast and surreal that Sam wasn't sure it was really happening.

Something shot out of the trees, a dark shadow, a hulking figure silhouetted against the navy blue horizon, and then something hard slammed into Sam. A heavy force was crushing down on his chest, the air in his lungs forced out painfully. His ribs creaked in protest as his ears were filled with muffled yelling and gun fire.

Somewhere between his spinning vision and rolling brain, he realized it was his brother on top of him and not the shadow that had shot out of the trees. Warm liquid was dripping onto his face but his brother hadn't attempted to move at all which both worried and perplexed Sam. Confused, he reached a sluggish hand up towards Dean's face.

"D-Dean…?"

Then the weight was gone. Sam rolled his head across the snowy ground, the cold stinging his cheek as he blinked through the darkness. He could see a mass of hulking figures interlinked together but he couldn't see who was who in the fray. Snarling and hissing was mingled with familiar yelps and whimpers of pain.

Sam blinked rapidly and tried to push his hands underneath him. He had to help. He had to do something.

But as he moved, everything around him swam, pulling him towards the black murky waters of unconsciousness. He let his head sink back against the snow and closed his eyes, trying to block out the swirling vortex that spun inside his head. Then he heard a sound that literally stopped his heart in his chest.

His eyes snapped open as his brother's anguished scream echoed deafeningly into the night.

**_To Be Continued_ …**


	14. Chapter 14

AN - OK, grovelling at this juncture is probably not going to help my cause, but if it's any consolation my personal life has completely kicked my ass seven ways in the last few months. I started a new job, lost a close friend, had family issues and got sick. On top of that, I've been building a new website. I'm really sorry for the delay with this chapter. I hope you enjoy it. Thank you to all the folk who have encouraged me to keep writing and who have stuck with this story. THanks to Leigh for the beta as always.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

_**The Black Hills, South Dakota**_

_**Wed 13 March 1996, Nightfall**_

The attack was so swift that Dean barely had time to react.

Something hard rammed into his side, forcing the air from his lungs. Dean's legs folded like wet paper as blinding pain speared through his torso. He hit the ground in an explosion of pain that radiated from deep within his chest, spiking through his ribs and into his spine. The world flickered around him like a candle flame in a draft, his head spinning. He tasted bile as his winded lungs tried, and failed, to draw breath.

He could smell the familiar scent of his brother beneath him, could hear his weak moans of pain, could feel Sam's trembling frame shying away from his dead weight. Dean knew he had smashed into Sam when the attack had happened and that made his blood run cold. Sam was already badly hurt and Dean was lying on top of him, his own torso pressed against Sam's bruised ribs.

"D-Dean?" Sam's voice, confused and pain-laced, was muffled beneath him.

Dean wanted to respond, to reassure his brother that he was fine – despite the blood that was starting to weave down his left cheek, and the fact he hadn't yet managed to take a breath – but he couldn't make his voice work.

Something moved above him.

Dean turned his head to glance over his shoulder. Two white eyes stared back at him, the ferocity of the gaze terrifying him.

It latched heavy, clawed hands onto Dean's left shoulder and dragged him up so he was sitting on top of his brother, rather than lying face down on his chest. White-hot agony flared in Dean's shoulder as the beast grabbed his arm and tugged. Dean tried to pull away, tried to escape the torment but the pain just intensified. He heard a sickening pop, then someone screaming. It took Dean a moment to realise that he was the one making the noise. The pain was blinding and, for a moment, his vision disappeared completely.

Then, he was being dragged backwards by his arm, wet snow soaking through his jeans as he was pulled across the ground. The agony shooting down his left side as pressure on the joint increased was unbearable. The wolf released him suddenly and Dean stumbled. He threw out his hands to catch himself, but it was a mistake. The agony that ricocheted up his left side nearly made him throw up.

Shocked and hurting, Dean lay in the snow, blinded by pain and tears. He blinked sluggishly, trying to get his bearings, trying to locate his attacker. The beast hadn't moved him far; Sam was lying about two metres from him, but there was no sign of the wolf. A yell of pain from behind him made Dean's stomach twist. It was his father's voice. Dean tried to move, tried to push himself off the ground.

Then, sharp claws dug into his shoulder, the iron-clad grip stopping his attempt to escape. The pressure on the damaged joint nearly forced him into unconsciousness but Dean managed to hold it at bay long enough to kick his feet out. The wolf didn't even seem to notice his weak fighting.

And then he was being dragged across the ground with alarming speed, away from his father, away from his brother.

The pain to his shoulder was horrendous and his head was spinning as the darkness of The Black Hills swallowed him and the wolf. Dean knew he had to fight back, knew the further he was taken from his family the less likely he was to get back to them.

Dean wasn't sure how far he was dragged when the ride came to an abrupt halt. His spine was bruised, his brain felt like a wrecking ball slamming again his skull and his shoulder was nothing short of agony. Above him, the clear navy sky was blanketed with thousands of twinkling dots and, for a moment, Dean was mesmerised by them swirling endlessly around him. He shuttered his eyes, briefly halting the roiling dizziness.

Snarling to his left yanked him back to reality. Dean turned his heavy gaze towards the shadow looming over him. He'd never encountered a wolf before; he wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but this wasn't it. Cujo was more what he'd had in mind, but this thing didn't have an inch of hair anywhere except on his head. In fact, his utterly human appearance was more terrifying than if it had been wolfish. Its eyes were bright white and its teeth were oddly elongated. Its clothes were torn and shredded fully in places to reveal bronzed skin beneath, and there was what looked like dried blood on its shirt - probably Dean's if the stinging above the elder Winchester's left eye was anything to go by.

The werewolf raised its head towards the sky and gave a feral howl that could have come right out of a Hollywood movie. Icy fingertips brushed up Dean's spine; he didn't dwell on it. Cradling his arm to his chest, ignoring the blinding pain in his shoulder, he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. He had to escape; he wasn't going to die like this, not as some chew toy to an oversized mongrel with bad breath.

Fuelled by adrenaline, Dean did the only thing he could; he ran. He knew instantly the wolf was following him; he could hear it snarling and hissing behind him. Heart pounding, his legs burning with acid, he stumbled through the trees, ignoring the branches snagging his skin and clothes as he hurtled forward. The snow was making it near impossible to gain traction or speed. It was like running through water, and his legs were already starting to feel like jelly.

He wasn't going to make it. He knew instinctively that he couldn't reach safety before the wolf caught him. In fact, Dean didn't even know if he was going the right way. He'd darted off into the darkness without knowing which way led back to his father. Survival instinct had taken over, and his only thought had been escaping. Now, clambering through the snow with a rabid dog on his tail, Dean felt that rash decision was about to get him killed. The wolf was closing in on him. He could almost feel its warm breath on his neck.

He was also aware that his gun was no longer tucked down the back of his jeans. He must have lost it when the wolf had dragged him through the woods. Without a weapon, Dean was screwed. He was a good fighter, but there was a hell of a difference between clocking some jock at school and having a fist-fight with a super-strength monster. It was a fight he had no chance of winning, and no intention of trying to.

Then he heard the most beautiful sound in the world; his father yelling his name resounded through the trees. Dean didn't hesitate. He yelled into the darkness, not caring how pathetic he sounded. He needed his father, and he needed him now. The wolf was closing in, and was genetically wired to be bigger, stronger and faster than its prey, and Dean knew he was the prey.

Holding on to the sound of John's voice like life-saving drift wood, Dean changed direction, his feet sinking into the snow with each step. He could see milky flashlight beams fragmenting through the trees, a beacon of hope in the darkness, but it was short-lived hope.

The wolf snagged his left foot. Dean tried to keep his balance, tried to stay upright but the grip was too strong. He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring his torso painfully. Then there was pressure on his back, and acrid warm breath on his skin. Goose bumps rose on his neck as he attempted to twist away from the iron-clad hold. Claws raked down his back, and Dean could feel his skin tearing. His fear ratcheted up another notch as a death grip latched onto his shoulders, pushing his face further into the snow. Sucking in the cold white crystals with each spluttering breath, Dean tried to twist away from his captor, tried to breathe but his abused lungs seemed frozen.

A gun shot echoed suddenly into the icy air. It was followed by three more loud bangs and a shriek from the werewolf that made the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stand on end. The weight on his shoulders vanished, and the howls of anguish from the creature seemed further away.

For a moment, Dean lay in the snow in silence, too cold, hurt and tired to move.

"Dean!"

It was his father, but the panic in his voice was something Dean was not used to hearing. It was sheer, stomach-clenching fear.

"D-dad…" The word was garbled between numb lips and was barely loud enough to be heard over his laboured breathing.

"DEAN!" Then, his father was there, at his side, the scent of gun oil and old leather clinging to the inside of Dean's nostrils.

John didn't even bother asking if he was hurt, in fact he didn't even speak. Warm hands explored Dean's injured body, brushing down his cold cheeks, studying the blood running down his face. Dean leaned into his father's touch. He was safe; his father would take care of him.

"Dean? Open your eyes." He hadn't even realised his eyes were closed, but he was surrounded by comforting darkness. Dean frowned and tried to open them, managing nothing more than half-mast and even that made the back of his eyes burn. "Dean! Stay awake."

Dean wanted to reply and tell him he was trying but he couldn't make his voice work. In fact, nothing seemed to be responding the way it should.

"Dean!" His name was snapped this time, more a command than a soothing persuasion. John wanted him awake, and he wanted him awake now. Dean had no idea how the hell his father managed to bark an order and yet sound worried at the same time.

"What... the hell... took you so long?" Dean managed to croak out.

"Christ, you had me worried there," John breathed.

Dean knew he was supposed to come back with a witty remark but he couldn't think of anything to say. His mind seemed strangely devoid of anything remotely resembling a coherent thought at the moment. He was also sure his spine had been through a tree shredder. The pain in his shoulder overrode everything else, however. The joint pulsated angrily beneath his clothes. Every little movement pushed a wave of nausea through him that threatened to turn his stomach inside out.

"JOHNNY!" The new voice made Dean frown. It sounded oddly distorted, like he was hearing it through water.

"Over here," John yelled back, his voice making the needling pain behind Dean's eyes worse. He closed his eyes, scrunching his forehead to ease the throbbing. It worked – briefly.

"He OK?" There was movement close by, snow crunching under foot and the rustling of underbrush before the milky beam of a flashlight appeared. "Johnny – the kid OK?" Joshua Turner melted out of the trees, dropping onto his hunches next to Dean.

"Dislocated shoulder," John replied even as his hands continued to ghost over Dean's body, searching for other injuries. Dean was sure there was a hint of relief in his tone. "It could have been worse." Dean wanted to disagree; it felt worse. Hell, it felt disconnected from his body completely.

"His back looks bad, John," Joshua countered, anxiously. "Was he-?"

"Scratches, nothing more." John hadn't let the southern hunter finish his sentence, but Dean knew what he had been asking; had Dean been bitten? If he had… It didn't bear thinking about. One bite was all it took to be turned... That was one thing Hollywood had gotten right.

"I'm OK," Dean mumbled. It would have been more convincing without the additional groan that slid from his lips.

"Sure you are," Joshua said with a sardonic snort. "The agonised yelp of pain was just for effect, right?"

Dean shot him a dark glare through half-mast eyes. "I can get up." He tried to sit up to prove his point, but his body had other ideas. He didn't even manage to raise his head an inch off the ground before his vision was swirling. "Or not..." he mumbled thickly.

"Take it slow," John ordered, gently manoeuvring Dean so he was sitting up. Joshua moved in behind him and supported his weight, mindful of his back – which Dean was grateful as hell for. His back and shoulder were pulsating with agony and everything was spinning around him. Dean wasn't even sure his legs would actually hold him upright if by some miracle he did make it to his feet.

"Christ, it's goddamn freezin' out here," Joshua murmured. Dean suspected the southern hunter was talking out of nervousness, but the inane chatter was welcomed. It gave him something to focus on, something other than the pain to deal with. "Next time we go on vacation, Winchester, I'm pickin' the destination. I'm thinkin' Florida – somewhere were snow ain't a factor."

John snorted softly. "You picked this _vacation_," he reminded him without accusation. Evidently his father had grown as a person, or he was too worried to start an argument. Dean suspected the latter.

"Russell picked this hunk of ice, man. I'd take New York, Paris – hell, even Coney Island over this place." Joshua sighed. "I ain't a nature lovin' kinda guy, Johnny. I like hotels, air con, cable... Camping out like a girl scout ain't my idea of a good time."

John didn't reply, but Dean saw his father's lips twitch at the corners as he continued to examine Dean's shoulder. Without warning, Joshua clamped his hand on his shoulder and John pulled his arm towards him. Dean felt bone scrape bone as his shoulder joint rolled up and popped back into place. The pain was agonizing, and sharp. Dean yelped, unable to stop himself as his vision clouded briefly.

"Son of a _bitch_," Dean moaned breathlessly, cradling his injured arm to his chest and squeezing his eyes shut.

"Hurts less if you don't see it coming," John explained quietly. With hindsight, Dean knew he should have seen it coming, should have recognised the brief look that passed between the two men, but he'd been oblivious.

John shrugged his rucksack off and pulled a sweater out. Carefully prising Dean's coat off his shoulders, John gently slung the garment around Dean's neck and made it into a sling before draping his jacket back around him. "Think you can stand?"

Dean wasn't sure he could do anything right now; he was too busy trying to stop his head from rolling off his shoulders and his arm from throbbing, but his father was looking at him expectantly.

Licking his lips, Dean nodded slowly. "Yeah... I think so."

John hooked his hands under Dean's uninjured side. He flicked his gaze towards Joshua who had taken his other side, mindful of his shoulder. "On three."

Dean braced himself as the countdown began. As Joshua and John hoisted him up, he tried to gain traction with his legs but as soon as he moved from sitting to upright, Dean was hit by a wave of vertigo that almost drove him back to his knees. It was only his father and Joshua's firm grip that stopped him from eating the ground.

"You all right?" John sounded worried.

"Just dizzy," Dean muttered, thankful that his father and Joshua were still holding him upright. "Gimme a sec."

"Lassie did a real number on you, kid," Joshua said sympathetically.

"Yeah, he's not house-broken yet," Dean deadpanned even as he opened his eyes to half-mast. Everything was no longer whirling around him in a maelstrom of blurred colours, but he was still dizzy as hell.

"We need to get back to the others," John broke through the levity.

Others...? _Sam_... Where the hell was his brother? Dean felt panic rise up his throat. "Where's Sam?"

Dean was sure he saw anxiety flash across his father's face but it quickly disappeared behind titanium shutters.

"Your brother is fine."

John's reassurance did little to alleviate Dean's anxiety but his father was already dragging him forward, signalling the end of the conversation. Normally, Dean would have accepted that, would have held his tongue, but this was Sam and Dean couldn't keep his silence. Dean wouldn't forgive himself if anything else happened to the kid. He couldn't believe his father had left Sam alone after everything he'd been through tonight - even for him.

Dean glanced around the darkened clearing, squinting against the throbbing pain in his head. There was also no sign of the wolf anywhere - but that wasn't exactly a positive, not when Sam wasn't with them. Not when that thing was still out there. Not when one bite could…

"The wolf... did it go down?" Dean demanded, shifting on his feet as a fresh wave of dizziness swept over him. He hadn't seen it fall, and his brother was a magnet for trouble. If that thing was still alive, he had no doubt Sam would attract it, and Dean knew that his brother couldn't take any more.

"Let me worry about the damn wolf, Dean." John's tone brooked no argument, but that didn't stop Dean.

"You gotta get back to Sammy," Dean said, rolling from under his father's shoulder and pulling away from him and Josh. He stumbled a little as the earth seemed to shift beneath him, but he kept his feet. John's whole stance was irritated as he turned towards Dean.

"Have you lost your mind?" he snarled. "I'm not leaving you out here, Dean! You're barely upright!"

"I can take care of my damn-self." Something that Sam definitely could not do at the moment. His brother had been one step from collapse before the Black Annis had even got hold of him, sick with a chest infection for a week or so before they'd even taken this gig. Dean had tried to get his father to take his brother to Bobby Singer's, or even Pastor Jim's but John insisted on coming straight to The Black Hills. Dean wasn't sure he could ever forgive his father for that lack of disregard about his brother's health.

John raised his brow. "Clearly."

Dean scowled. He didn't need to be told he had screwed this up. His shoulder was dislocated and that was going to make an already difficult situation even harder. They still had to get down the mountainside and into the town to a hospital, and the small group was already in a mess. Dean's shoulder was just another problem - one that Dean should have avoided. He might have taken the time to feel guilty about it, but right now his only thought was for his brother's safety.

"Did you see it go down?" Dean repeated.

"I hit it," John snapped.

"That's not what I asked."

"What the hell _are_ you asking, Dean? Did I kill it? I don't know. Do I want to hunt the thing down and make sure it is dead? Of course I do, but right now we need to get the hell out of here, and that is exactly what I plan on doing. We don't have time to play exterminator! Your brother and Caleb are up shit creek without the boat, never mind the damn paddle!" John was breathless by the time he finished speaking, his irritation rolling off him in squalls that even the darkness could not hide.

Joshua hadn't said anything throughout the entire exchange; he just sighed and raked his fingers through his hair. "Christ, Johnny, I ain't exactly yearnin' to go after Cujo either, but the kid's got a point. If it keeps comin' at us like that, we ain't gonna last an hour up here. I mean, the frigging thing dragged off Dean like he was nothin' but air. It gets a-hold of Caleb or your youngest... Hell, I don't even want to think about it."

Glancing up at the lightening sky, John let out a breath laced with frustration, not to mention exhaustion. "We're not that far from the bottom of The Hills now – an hour or so tops before we hit civilisation. We've just got to hold it at bay long enough to get out of here." John's jaw tensed, his lips drawing into a tight, resolved line. "As soon as everyone's safe, I'll come back and kill the thing myself."

"Sam won't last five minutes, let alone a couple of hours, Dad," Dean snapped, "and, even if, by some minor miracle he does, Caleb definitely won't."

Even in the pre-dawn light, Dean could feel the irritation that washed over his father.

"Well, then," John growled, "I suggest we move fast."

* * *

The wind was picking up and the air so cold that every inhalation seemed to burn Joshua's lungs. Under normal circumstances he might have complained about it, but not tonight. Instead, he stumbled through the thick drifts of white, flicking his flashlight around the tightly packed trees, eyes scanning ceaselessly for the wolf. Where the hell was it? He didn't know much about werewolves, but, like all creatures at the top of the food chain, he doubted it would give up on its meal that easily; especially when their small group was practically a walking-talking all-you-can-eat buffet.

Joshua had no idea how far they were from the others, but John led them, confidently picking the route as if he had an internal compass that was magnetised towards his youngest. Joshua followed him without question. John had his faults but the man was the best in his field. Josh knew only a handful of other hunters who could rival Winchester. He might not always see eye-to-eye with the man, but he did trust his judgement.

His light passed over Dean as he scanned the surrounding woods. The teenager looked like shit. His arm was slung against his chest, and a mix of dried and new blood was crusted on his face. The kid was weaving like a drunk, but he refused any help from either Joshua or John. While he admired the kid's tenacity, Joshua couldn't help but think that Winchester pride would, one day, be the undoing of the three of them.

"How much farther?" Dean snapped suddenly, cutting through the icy silence.

"Not far," was all the reply John gave, but there was a tension in both father and son's tone that Joshua recognised. Christ, he'd used it enough himself with his own father.

He understood Dean's frustration and irritation. He and Russell weren't exactly the Waltons but, despite their differences, he loved his father dearly. That sentiment didn't detract from the fact he wanted to ring his neck at the moment .

This whole hunt was completely and utterly out of control. Caleb was a mess, Sam was a disaster, and Dean had almost become a werewolf's snack. He had expressly forbidden his father from coming on this damn crusade, but Russell never did listen to anyone, and never would. Joshua would have smacked some sense into him if he thought it would make a blind bit of difference, but his father was as stubborn as they came. He'd never take the blame for this, and he'd never accept he had screwed up. The son of a bitch would always do stuff his way, but Joshua wished he'd stop dragging other people into his mess.

He had no idea how John would react if they ever made it out of the damn hills. In fact, Josh was a little anxious about it. Even if both his boys made it out safely, Joshua hadn't forgotten that John and Caleb were close, too. He had no idea what the hunter would do to his father and, in all honesty, Joshua wasn't sure he'd try to stop him.

The trees thinned out and as they stepped around a clump of underbrush, Joshua was greeted by a familiar clicking sound. He spun to the side, flicking the beam of his flashlight towards it and allowed his pounding heart to slow down. Russell's haggard face greeted him over the barrel of a rifle. The artificial light enhanced the fear in his expression, the black-blood on his temple making his pale face seem even starker.

"Christ, Russell," Josh exclaimed, lowering the beam from his face.

"You found the boy," Russell said tightly, shifting his gaze toward Dean. "I didn't think you-" He shook himself and met Joshua's eye. "Next time, a bit of warning before you come sneaking back out of the trees. I could have damn well shot you."

Joshua snorted. "Nice to see you too, Russ." He slapped his father on the shoulder and stepped around him as he lowered the handgun.

Dean was already limping towards his younger brother, weaving a little as he stumbled forward; John was less than a step behind. Joshua had known the eldest Winchester for a long time, and worry was radiating from him despite the stoic, tight-lipped expression the older man wore. John, like Joshua, knew this entire situation was fucked. The severity of it hit him hard, however, as he moved further into the clearing. Joshua had no goddamn idea how they were getting out of this mess.

Glancing past the former-marine, Joshua let his eyes wander to the two teens. Sam was lying on the ground next to the unconscious form of Caleb. Judging by the drag marks in the snow, Russell had pulled the kid across the ground next to the arms dealer and he had covered him with one of the other sleeping bags from the packs – no doubt attempting to warm up the frozen kid. The boy was a mess. His dark hair was plastered to the side of his face, his jaw hanging slackly to one side. Dean sank onto his knees next to him, and ran a hand over his blood-stained cheeks before brushing his longish hair out of his closed eyes. Josh wasn't close enough to hear what the older teen was saying to the unconscious kid, but he continued to stroke his hair as he spoke in hushed tones.

Joshua moved away from them, uncomfortable watching the private moment, and followed after his father who was collecting their strewn belongings. When the wolf had struck, Joshua didn't remember dropping his heavy pack, but it lay on the ground next to the rolled up tent and other camping equipment that had been dumped in haste as they took off after Dean.

"You OK?" The question wasn't unusual, but it made something snap inside Joshua's head. He cut his eyes towards his father and scowled.

"I'm half way up a mountain in subzero temperatures, running from a cannibalistic shape-shifting man. I'm frigging peachy." Joshua couldn't help snapping; they wouldn't be here if it wasn't for his father's stupidity.

He expected his father to growl back, to launch the all-too familiar argument but it never came. Russell scrubbed a hand over his chin, and let out a long suffering puff of icy air. When he offered no come-back, Joshua felt deep-seated worry stir within him.

"You feeling OK?" he asked suspiciously, wondering how hard his father had hit his head.

Russell sighed wearily. "I'm fine, Josh." He glanced towards the small family unit before reaching for the nearest pack. "You get the wolf?"

It was Joshua's turn to give a frustrated sigh. "Johnny hit it, but neither of us saw the friggin' thing hit the deck."

Russell's jaw tightened. "We've gotta get those boys out of here. Caleb ain't come 'round for a while now, and I couldn't get Sam to wake up at all. The kid didn't even flinch when I moved him."

Joshua agreed fervently. He wanted nothing more than to have four walls around him again. If he never saw a speck of grass again it would be too soon.

Russell glanced up at the sky. Sunrise was steadily approaching and the previously lightening sky was now smeared with pale yellow before it blended into a bruised purple.

"How far do you reckon it is 'til we reach civilisation?"

"John reckons a few hours," Joshua replied quietly.

Russell let out a long breath. "Those boys don't have a few hours."

Joshua knew that, but he didn't know how the hell to get around it. They would just have to patch the pair of them up the best they could and pray to God they made it.

"Yeah, well, unless Caleb has a chopper in his pack..." Joshua broke off with a helpless shrug. "Ain't a whole lot we can do but keep moving."

Raising his eyes to the heavens, Russell shook his head and sighed.

"I screwed up, Josh." The admission was given quietly, but it was no less heartfelt. Joshua felt his breath catch in the back of his throat.

"Yeah," he agreed after a moment, "you did. But that ain't to say you can't put it right, Russ."

Worn, old eyes flicked towards him. "Not sure this can be put right, kid."

Joshua wasn't sure of that either, but he was spared from giving a response by his father stumbling. Instantly, he threw his arm out and caught him under the elbow, steadying him.

"You OK?"

Russell rubbed his eyes, and then blinked. "Must've hit my head a damn sight harder than I thought."

"Maybe it'll have knocked some sense into you."

Russell smiled but didn't reply; John had moved over to them.

"We have to go, _now_," the older hunter murmured under his breath, his brown eyes darting around the clearing as if expecting the wolf to materialise. It made Joshua's heart dance beneath his ribs.

"The wolf?" Joshua asked, his own gaze searching. John dragged a hand down his face, averting his gaze towards his sons. "Sam?" He shot the hunter a questionable glance.

John didn't say anything, but he didn't have to; his expression spoke louder than any words. Joshua could practically feel the worry radiating off the older man. There was a lot of crap said by a lot of hunters about the infamous John Winchester, but there was no denying the man loved his boys, and that he would die trying to protect them; Joshua had seen first-hand how far the man was willing to go to keep his boys safe.

"How do you want to do this – with Dean's arm?" Joshua's gaze cut from the teen back to John.

Winchester frowned, and Joshua wondered if he John had thought that far ahead. Dean was clutching his injured arm to his chest, his expression weary. The kid looked two steps from collapse but, in spite of his obvious exhaustion, Joshua didn't miss the grim determination in his face as he remained by his brother's side.

"Russ, how you feeling?" John questioned, glancing passed Josh.

"I can carry that damn litter, if that's what you're askin'."

John gave a satisfied nod of his head, "We need to get out of here as quickly as possible."

"And Dean?" Joshua pressed. Sometimes John tended to forget that people weren't super-human. He'd been on the receiving end of a Winchester motivational pep-talk; they weren't pleasant and, from what Joshua remembered, they weren't exactly motivational either.

"Dean will be fine," John assured him. Joshua wasn't sure he agreed with that assessment.

"He was out of it when we found him, Johnny."

The older hunters jaw tightened at the reminder, and Joshua felt the beginnings of a storm brewing. "He's stronger than he looks."

"I ain't doubting his strength, John," Joshua countered, "but he went down hard after that wolf hit him."

"We don't have a choice." John snapped, his gaze cutting to his eldest who was still crouched next to Sam. "Dean has to walk out of here. We don't have enough people for me to baby him!"

Joshua sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. The situation sucked, but John was right – Dean _had_ to walk out of here – and Joshua surmised that even bleeding, with limbs missing, Dean _would_ walk out of here. Winchester stubbornness was almost as notorious as Winchester pride.

* * *

John Winchester was a man used to being in control. Every aspect of his life was planned and executed like a military operation. He'd hated the marines, had come back trying to forget the things he'd seen, had done, and yet, even after all the terror he had experienced, he'd never lost his compassion – until Mary died.

Sometimes, John barely recognised the man he had become, barely even liked the person he was since she'd passed. With her death he'd slipped back into that familiar life that had defined his youth before he'd married his late wife.

It was easier to deal with the pain when he was lost in routine, when he had something worth fighting – and possibly dying – for. He knew people took his attitude to mean he didn't give a rat's ass but nothing could have been further from the truth. He did what he had to in order to keep his kids safe. He loved his boys, but God, he'd never leave them unprepared. Not like he himself had been.

Monsters, demons... they'd been nothing more than a fairytale, comic book creatures to John before his wife was stolen from him. Now, they formed part of John's everyday existence. In the last twelve years he'd had more myths and legends thrown at him than he could physically count. From ghosts, to vampires, to werewolves – he'd seen it all.

He glanced down at his youngest. He was shorter than Dean had been at his age, soft and petite, like Mary. In many ways, Sam reminded him of his late wife's mother, but with Samuel's temper. Mary's father had a temper that could have been sold and packaged as weapon of mass destruction.

He despised himself for dragging his boys into this mess. Sam was a mess, his head twisted to the side, dark hair plastered to his face. He hadn't woken up yet, and that worried John. The kid should have come round by now. Exposure, potential internal injuries, head trauma...the list of causes was too long for John to figure out what had caused his son's slip into unconsciousness, but his need to have him in a hospital under a doctor's supervision was overwhelming.

In all honesty, John had no idea how the six of them were getting out of there in one piece. Caleb needed a transfusion after his attack by the Annis and probably surgery to repair the damage the damn the bitch had caused him. Dean's shoulder was a mess, and he was concussed.

The hazy light of pre-dawn was filtering through the leafy canopy overhead, casting shadows on the snowy ground. The sun would rise shortly and, with sunrise, the threat of the werewolf dissipated. It would have to act soon if it wanted to finish its hunt, but John was praying it was too hurt to trail them.

He cut his eyes towards the trees on his right side as something rustled but it was just the wind. John wondered if he had hit the wolf enough to keep it away. He'd had a good shot, a straight shot of the creature, but he'd missed. The esteemed John Winchester had _missed_ a simple shot. It had been sheer terror that had made the shot swing wide. He'd heard Dean's moans of pain, had seen the shadowed figure of the wolf looming over his son's body and he had panicked. John Winchester didn't panic, he was cool, calm. He wasn't a rookie kid; Christ, he'd been doing this shit a long time, and yet, when it had counted, he had missed the shot. Had he kept his cool, they could have stopped worrying about the damn wolf. That thought cut through him painfully. He could have ended at least one part of this nightmare.

"D-Dad?" The familiar voice drew his gaze downwards. Sam blinked up at him owlishly, his expression pained.

"Hey," John murmured softly, relief racing through him. "Welcome back, Sammy." He ran a hand over his son's clammy face, and frowned at the heat radiating off the kid. They'd had a week of fevers like this before they'd taken this hunt, but in the middle of nowhere? It didn't ease John's apprehension.

"Wha-" his youngest frowned and blinked again, his glassy gaze rolling around. Dean was instantly at his side, dropping into the snow next to him. His relief, and his worry, was palpable.

"How you feelin', Sleeping Beauty?"

Sam winced and shuttered his eyes. "Like I got hit by a truck."

"You look worse, dude."

Sam glanced up at his brother. "You...don't...look much better." He frowned deeply, his brow furrowing. "The wolf?"

"Pulled a Houdini," Dean replied tightly.

"Your arm...?"

Dean glanced down at the sling and shrugged one-shouldered, "It's all the rage up here, Sammy. Slings are in this season."

John had no idea how the hell the pair of them could joke about the situation when he was one step from mind-blowing panic. In fact, he was just glad that Sam was awake. He'd take sarcasm, ill-timed humour...anything – as long as he could see those bright hazel eyes.

"Hey, keep those beady eyes open," Dean nudged his brother. Sam blinked.

"Sorry..."

"Don't be sorry, just stay awake." Dean shook his head. "You really are living up to the title of narcoleptic boy."

"Not much of a superhero," Sam teased, but his half-mast eyes and a barely-suppressed groan from between clenched teeth clearly said things weren't as peachy as they were all trying to make out.

"It's a pass into the Justice League, dude. Be grateful. Besides, it takes years to work up to Awesome Man."

Sam grunted scornfully but his eyes were back at half mast. "Awesome Man? _That's_ your superhero name?" he murmured.

"Beats the hell outta Narcoleptic Boy," Dean countered. "Or you could be Brooding Man."

John scowled at his eldest, the childish conversation starting to grate on frayed nerves but he didn't have a chance to chastise him. A pain-filled howl echoed through The Hills. Instantly on his feet, his gun in his hands, John stayed close to his boys. He strained to listen, eyes ceaselessly scanning the tree line for any sign of the wolf.

"It sounds close," Russell said tightly, shifting closer to the others, gun in his own hands.

!but it was not close enough. They just had to keep ahead of it for a while longer.

John shifted his pack on his shoulders. "We keep moving," he said firmly.

The wolf wasn't giving up on this hunt, and John's panic was growing ten-fold with every second that counted down. Caleb had not woken up since the wolf's first attack and Sam's breathing was becoming increasingly laboured, his fever spiking. Time was steadily running out for the small group.

The howling was closer this time. John glanced over his shoulder, pulling his gun from the back of his waistband. Dean was close to his side; Joshua and Russell on the other carrying the litter. He glanced up at the patches of sky peeking from underneath the leafy canopy. It was getting lighter with each step.

It was almost sunrise; it was ten, fifteen minutes away, at most. They just had to stay ahead for that long; survive just long enough for the sun to come up and the wolf to transform back to its human form. John just wasn't sure they could. The bullet had slowed the creature down, but it was still coming.

Movement rustled the bushes ahead of them and a lone figure charged into view. John pulled up short. The wolf was silhouetted against the backdrop of the lightening horizon, snarling and hissing like a rabid dog.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N - Ok, firstly, major major major apologies for the length of time between postings. I suck, I realise this, but I really am sorry. Hopefully, this chapter will soften the kicking y'all want to give me.

A huge thanks to everyone who is still reading, and reviewing. I really appreciate your comments and the fact you are reading still. Thanks to Leigh, who beta'd this in record timing, and for making me realise that I've not lost my mojo.

As always, this is dedicated to my good friend, _Jenilee_. I hope you are still enjoying this tale.

* * *

**Chapter 15**

**_Thursday 14 March 1996, Pre-Dawn_**

John didn't hesitate. His gun was already in his hand, his eyes narrowing as he honed in on his target. He raised the weapon and fired. He barely saw the beast move but, before he'd even got off one shot, it had melted back into the trees. John scanned the dense woodland for any sign of movement, but nothing stirred.

"Where in the hell did it go?" Russell's sharp southern twang snapped through the silence like a cracking whip.

John ignored him, straining to listen. All he could hear was his own laboured breathing and his heart pounding in his ears.

"I can't see a goddamn thing," Joshua muttered, his eyes sweeping the area frantically. The stillness was unnerving.

John risked pulling his eyes from the woods and slid a gaze towards his boys. Dean was practically on top of his younger brother, shielding the hurt teen with his own body. His worry was etched across his face as he met John's eyes.

Dean was tough, tougher than any seventeen-year-old had the right to be. In public, John blamed his son's attitude on the hunters they had met over the years, but he knew Dean's personality was all his doing. He had moulded his eldest into the perfect soldier. He'd drawn from his years of military training when raising his boys. He had ceased being their father the moment Mary died. He was their drill sergeant and Dean fell into line like the perfect recruit because John had demanded it. Even when the shit hit the fan, Dean never dropped the tough façade. Not for anything...apart from Sam. And John shouldn't have been surprised by Dean's need to protect his brother; he had practically seared that order into his eldest son's brain.

Tearing his gaze from Dean, John moved towards the spot where the wolf had appeared moments before, keeping watch as he fumbled in his jeans pocket for more rounds. He'd hit the thing, of that he was sure, but he needed proof. Slamming a new magazine home, his gaze dropped from the tree line to the snow. As he expected, blood marred the blanket of white. There was a small pool near his feet and a trail led into the undergrowth ahead of him. John crouched down, peering into the tangle of leaves and branches. It wouldn't have gone far, not with sunrise approaching. It would want to finish its hunt and, unfortunately for their small group, they were an easy target.

"Johnny?" Joshua's voice held a note of uncertainty that had John glancing over his shoulder. The twenty-six year old was on his feet but he hovered close to the makeshift litter Caleb was lying on.

"I hit the bastard," John replied, straightening from his crouch, shifting his grip on his gun, his fingers circling tightly around the metal. The wolf was bleeding badly, but John was cynical as hell; he knew the wound was unlikely to slow the thing down or stop it. His luck had never been that good.

His gaze strayed back to his sons. The father in him wanted to bundle the pair of them up and take off at record speed towards civilisation, but the hunter in him knew that was a sure-fire way to get them all killed. Caution was the only chance they had to survive this.

"You think the son of a bitch'll come back?" Russ demanded.

John shrugged, not wanting to admit that he knew it would. Everyone was on their last string as it was; he didn't want to be the one to break the rope. Besides, there was no point in inducing panic. He needed Russ and Josh to keep it together long enough to get back to town. His lack of response had the opposite effect, however.

"You ain't exactly fillin' me with comfort, Winchester," Russell snapped.

"I'm not here to hold your hand, Russell," John growled back. The older hunter's attitude was grating on John's already frayed nerves. He was tired of explaining himself, of explaining his actions – especially considering he was only here because of Russell.

"You two think you can hold off you pissing contest till we hit civilisation?" Joshua's patience was wearing thin, his exhausted eyes hard.

John sighed and resumed scanning the trees. He couldn't see it, but he sensed it was close. Gun still in hand, John trudged through the deep snow back towards his boys. Dean climbed awkwardly to his feet, mindful of his dislocated shoulder.

"What's going on?" Dean asked, sliding his eyes back towards his brother. Sam was drifting, his heavy eyes shuttering slowly as he tried to fight the urge to sleep. John could tell it was a battle his youngest was doomed to lose, and he wasn't surprised when Sam's eyes closed and didn't reopen.

"It's not going to stop following us, Dean. We've got to keep moving." John glanced up through the skeletal at the steadily lightening sky. "If we can stay ahead of it for a while longer..."

"…we make sunrise and we won't _have_ to worry about it following us," Dean finished his thought.

John nodded. The wolf would change back into human form once the sun rose; they just had to survive that long. John would come back once his sons were safe and finish off the beast but, for now, his priority was getting Dean and Sam out of there.

"Johnny!_**Look out!**_" Joshua's panicked yell snared John's attention. He twisted his head to glance over his shoulder, his gun following his gaze, but he was not quick enough. A crushing blow caught him squarely in the chest, the air forced from his lungs. Then, there was nothing beneath his feet but the rush of air as he was flung bodily across the clearing. John braced himself for the pain he knew was going to come when he landed. He wasn't disappointed. He slammed into something hard and lightning agony raced up his spine, blooming across his shoulders. The 'something hard' yelped.

Dazed, he blinked sluggishly at the trees looming above him, his entire body numb from the strike. He was on the ground, the snow cold beneath him, his back tingling with pain. There were voices screaming around him but they sounded dulled to his ringing ears.

"_DAD!" _Dean's voice broke through the cotton balls stuffed into his ears, and it was enough to get John moving again, fighting his uncooperative body. He rolled over, blinking against the dizziness playing with his vision.

Russell was lying next to him, groaning, and clutching his side, but he was already attempting to move. John realized he must have hit Russ when the wolf had thrown him.

"Christ, Winchester," Russell moaned.

But John wasn't listening. He could see his sons across the clearing. John was sure he had been standing next to his sons only moments before. As John pushed up onto shaky elbows, he saw the beast stalking towards his boys.

Dean had picked up a large branch and was waving it one-handed in front of him and Sam, trying to protect himself and his younger sibling. John moved to raise his gun but it was no longer in his hand. It wasn't even on the ground near him. He scanned the snow desperately for the weapon, his eyes cutting between his search and the werewolf. His heart leapt into his throat as his gaze froze on Dean.

The wolf darted forwards and slammed into his eldest with the force of a wrecking ball. Dean twisted his body, enough to avoid hitting his brother, but he slammed into the ground hard. Looming over his boys, the beast twisted its head to meet John's eyes, its own filled with hate, it's lips twisted upwards in a snarl. It was playing with him.

_Son of a bitch!_

Gun forgotten, John was moving before he even thought about it, powering through the snow desperately. It was like trying to run through wet cement, his feet sinking into the deep drifts. He pushed through, ignoring the pain in his legs, ignoring his blurred vision, his eyes locked on his sons. He'd die before he let anything touch his sons, but he'd broken his own rule. Panic had overtaken his senses and the hunter in him had given way to the parent, but he was terrified, more scared than he had ever been of anything in his life.

Dean seemed to freeze for a second, fear overwhelming him momentarily before he was scrabbling backwards on his ass and right elbow, his eyes wide with fear as the wolf stalked closer. He made a desperate lurch to his knees, throwing himself protectively in front of Sam. John felt a hand close around his heart as he saw the terror in his eldest son's eyes.

_Goddamn it, Winchester, move your fucking ass! _

But the snow was too deep. He seemed to be moving in slow motion as the wolf, snarling and howling, closed in on his boys.

Joshua was closer, and the younger hunter barrelled into the wolf. They went down hard, the wolf's howl of frustration mixing with Joshua's pain-filled yell. Through the tangle of limbs, John couldn't see Joshua, but he could hear him, and that was worse.

John closed the gap between them in a few strides, but it felt like a thousand. Weaponless, he did the only thing his frayed brain could think of. He threw himself on the wolf's back, his arms circling around its torso, dragging it off Joshua. It thrashed wildly at being restrained, sharp claws raking John's arms, cutting through his shirt like a knife through butter. The wolf was strong, and it took every ounce of strength John possessed to pull the animal off Joshua. He could hear it snarling and hissing as it bucked against his grip but John maintained his hold.

The wolf pushed backwards, its spine pressing painfully against John's torso. The weight was crushing; John's ribs creaked, pushing against abused lungs, forcing the air out of his chest. He managed to keep a hold on the beast, but he couldn't stop them both crashing to the ground. The snow softened the fall, but the impact still reverberated through his back, the pain shooting up his spine. A moan escaped his lips as the wolf landed on top of him, but he kept his grip. To let go of the wolf now was death. The creature was _pissed_, and John had no intention of letting it unleash that anger on the already battered group.

Warm blood ran down his arms, his skin exposed through the tattered material as the beast continued to maul him. John pushed through the pain and held firm. He could hear Dean screaming his name, could hear Joshua yelling something, but he focused on his attacker.

Instinct guiding action, he released his grip on the wolf's torso and, in one fluid motion, grabbed its neck and twisted. He felt cartilage and muscles tear beneath his hands, then bones snap followed by a strangled whimper before there was silence. The wolf's dead weight was crushing John, but the beast was still.

"Johnny!" mixed with a petrified "Dad!" as both Dean and Joshua appeared at his side. Russell took a moment longer to arrive, but the grizzled older hunter wore an awed expression.

"_Holy shit,_ Winchester," Russell breathed, "are you off your damn meds?"

John wondered the same thing himself. "Get this fucking _thing_ off me," he growled as he shoved weakly at the heavy creature, his energy spent. He'd put every last ounce of strength into holding the wolf still and his limbs felt like jelly.

Joshua moved instantly, grabbing hold of the beast's arms and, with Russell's help, they dragged it off John. With the weight removed, John felt the blood rush back to his limbs but he didn't attempt to move.

"You OK?" Dean asked, worry etched into his face as he dropped onto the ground next to John, his eyes roving his face before focusing on his the blood staining his ripped shirt sleeve. "_Shit_, Dad, what the hell were you thinking? Wrestling with the flesh-eating monster isn't your best idea to date. You're not Crocodile Dundee!"

John frowned at Dean's reproof but didn't respond; he was too tired to argue with the kid. But one look at the fearful look in his eyes and John knew it had been the right move – even if it _was_ insane to wrestle a werewolf.

Joshua dropped next to them both and began to gently peel back the shredded sleeve to get a look at the injury. It looked ghastly, John thought with a clinical detachment born from years of dealing with ghastly. Long, angry gashes ran the length of both arms, but his left was worse. Blood was dripping liberally from the limb, staining the white snow beneath him.

"Where's the first aid kit?" Dean demanded, pulling his wide-eyed gaze from John's arm. Joshua frowned at him.

"We used all the gauze on Caleb and your brother."

"It needs binding," Dean insisted.

"Dean, I'm fine," John assured him.

His son gave him an incredulous glare. "Your arm looks like it went through a meat grinder, Dad." Dean shook his head, glancing back up at Russell and Joshua. "What the hell _is_ left in the first aid kit? I don't think a couple of frigging band aids and a kiss better are going to fix this!"

Russell dropped his pack onto the ground and crouched down to pull the zipper back. "Untwist your panties, Dean. They're ugly as hell, but your Daddy ain't gonna kiss the ground from it." He rooted around inside the knapsack and, after a moment, pulled out a plain white t-shirt which he handed to Joshua, ignoring the daggers Dean was shooting at him.

"Hope you ain't too attached to this shirt, Russell," Joshua murmured, not giving the older hunter a chance to respond as he ripped the garment down the seam. Now, with two pieces of material, he wrapped both John's arms, tying them off at the crook of his elbows to keep pressure on the wounds.

John pressed his hand against the left arm, hoping a little added pressure would stop blood from bleeding through the material, and winced at the touch. His arms burned, but John pushed his pain aside, refusing to give into it. He still had to get his boys out of The Hills, and _nothing_ was going to stop him from doing so.

Unsteadily, he climbed to his feet, Joshua and Dean both hovering closely in case he needed assistance. John gave them both a dark glare, his left arm wrapped around his middle. He didn't need help. He wasn't that badly injured. His arms hurt but he was perfectly capable of walking, perfectly capable of carrying his youngest out of there. Perfectly capable of...

_Whoa_.

He closed his eyes, his brow furrowing as he staggered a little. He felt a hand hooked under his elbow.

"Dad?" Forcing his eyes open, he was met with Dean's green eyes, searching his face.

"I'm OK, Dean," John snapped, pulling out of Dean's grip. He felt a pang of guilt at the crestfallen look that briefly flickered on his eldest son's face before the stony walls appeared. John tried to soften his expression. "I'm OK," he repeated before turning to study Joshua. "What about you?"

Joshua's jacket was slashed, and even in the pre-dawn light, John could see there was some blood staining his t-shirt beneath.

"I'll live, Johnny," Joshua said, his left hand automatically reaching for his bloodied chest.

John stared at him, testing the weight of the statement. He needed Joshua to help him, and if he wasn't able to do it...well, John had no idea how the hell they would get out of the stinking mountains.

"Really, John, I'm fine," Joshua said, his words firm. "The bastard cut me up, but ain't nothin' stoppin' me getting out of this goddamn hell hole."

Without waiting for permission, John grabbed the hem of Joshua's shirt and pushed it up till it was bunched under his armpits. Josh tried to bat him away, shivering as the cold air hit his bare skin.

"Christ, Winchester!" He scowled, pushing John's hands back. "I said I was friggin' fine. You wanna grope me, at least buy me dinner first."

Joshua's chest was a messy canvas of blood and gashes but they looked mostly superficial. He had, somehow, managed to keep the wolf from doing too much damage – which John was profoundly grateful for. John raised questioning eyes to the younger hunter.

"Guess that membership at the gym kinda paid off, huh?" Joshua pushed dark hair behind his ears, leaving a smear of blood on his cheek. John wasn't sure whose blood it was.

"And I thought the only reason you went was to meet girls," John said with a weak smile. Joshua shifted his shoulders.

"At sixty-five dollars a session?" Josh raised a brow. "I love the ladies as much as the next guy, Johnny, but I ain't made of money."

John snorted and let his gaze fall on the werewolf. The body was laid out on the ground, the white skin stark against the snow. John wasn't sure if it was because the sun had finally risen, or because the wolf was now dead, but the creature had changed back into human form. There was no sign of teeth, nor the rabid beast that had tried to drag his eldest off. Neck broken, his head was turned to the side, a sliver of blood trailed from his mouth. The still creature appeared peaceful and so different from the snarling monster that had attacked them moments ago.

As John studied him, he realised the wolf was no more than a kid – probably about the same age as Dean. Guilt gnawed at him. He was someone's son, possibly someone's brother, and John had killed him without a second thought. He briefly wondered whether his family would be searching for him, and then pushed the thought out of his head. It sucked that John had been forced to kill the kid but he was a killer. John had no doubt that the werewolf would have killed more innocent people if he'd let him go. No, he had ceased being someone's child, someone's sibling the moment he had been bitten. Now, he was a monster, a murderer, and John knew he had done the right thing.

He turned back to the small group and tightened his jaw. "Gather the gear together; let's get the hell out of this goddamn place."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean was exhausted. He stumbled over a tree-root hidden beneath the snow but managed to catch himself. Falling over was not an option. His dislocated shoulder was already aching fiercely without hitting the ground like a dart. Besides, if he fell down now, Dean wasn't sure that he had the strength to get back up again.

Joshua and Russell were carrying the litter with the wounded Caleb; John, despite his own wounds, was carrying Sam in his arms, seemingly unperturbed by the weight of the twelve year old. John was the ultimate machine, and Dean admired that strength in his father; the will to keep going no matter what was thrown at him, the dogged determination to never give in, no matter what crap was flung at them.

Dean frowned. He wasn't sure how much more he could take. Seeing his brother hurt was painful, but his father had hit a deeper chord. He was used to seeing his father bruised and cut up, but this was a whole other ball game. Dean couldn't describe the panic he'd felt watching his father taking on the wolf bare-handed. It was nothing short of a miracle he was still in one piece. Dean couldn't lose Sam, and he couldn't lose John. It struck him how close he had come to losing them both in the last twenty-four hours. Not that Sam was out of the woods yet, but at least they had a better chance of surviving now there was nothing on their tails.

The sun was rising on the eastern horizon, reds and oranges melting into pale yellow and finally a perfect azure. The trees were starting to thin out, but they were still in the thick of the forest. Dean was just grateful he could see patches of sky. He had felt claustrophobic under the trees and yet he'd also felt extremely exposed in spite of that. It had been difficult to see both the wolf and the Black Annis in the tightly packed woodland – especially in the dark. The blossoming dawn put the ghosts of last night firmly to rest and gave Dean hope that they would all get out of this mess more or less in one piece. It seemed unjust that they should survive both Annis and wolf, only to fall in the last few miles. Dean had never been much for God or religion, but he'd pray his ass off if it meant they would all be OK.

Continuing forward, Dean cut his gaze to his father, and his brother. Sam hadn't come round since the wolf had attacked them in the clearing, since John had been mauled, and that was worrying Dean. He knew his brother had been through hell, but he didn't like the fact he was playing Mr McSnoozy. John was cradling Sam in his arms, his son's head buried against his chest. Sam's face was pallid, stark against the snow. Dean wondered how much longer he could survive, how much longer they could all survive. The sun had brought a milder morning, but there was still a biting chill in the air. Dean could no longer feel any part of his body.

"I'll be damned." Russell came to a stop, shifting the litter poles in his hands. The older hunter looked exhausted, weaving a little on his feet, his eyes a little rheumy, but there was a smile gracing his weather-beaten face now. "Didn't think you'd actually get us out of this damn mess, John."

Dean followed his gaze. Between the thinning trees, there was a scattering of cabins and beyond that, nestled deeper in the valley was a sprawling town. Dean let out a relieved breath, more grateful than he would ever admit that civilisation was within reach. He was so tired, he had no idea how he was still standing.

"Your faith in me, Russell, is overwhelming," John replied quietly, shifting his grip on Sam's lax body.

Russell snorted, but didn't offer the sarcastic response Dean had been expecting.

It was a testament to how exhausted the group were that no one heard the man approach until he stepped out of the trees. He was short, stocky, and had a shock of white hair. His face was hidden behind a trimmed beard but his eyes were suspicious. The guy was suited and booted for the weather, but it was the dawn-sun glinting off the barrel of the rifle aiming at John's back that made Dean freeze.

John twisted his neck to glance over his shoulder, his gaze hard.

"You want to point that gun somewhere else?" John's voice was steady but there was a bite in his tone that was colder than the snow.

Dean had no idea who the hell this crazy son of a bitch was, or even why he was up in The Hills, but the rifle pointing at his father was making him twitchy. The urge to hurl himself bodily in front of Sam and John was overwhelming. His gaze cut between his family and the stranger, his fear mounting at this unknown danger. Like the wolf and the Annis weren't enough; now, they had to deal with this guy. Dean was starting to wonder if his brother's claim that they were cursed was correct.

The man merely shifted his eyes towards Sam, the rifle still aimed at John and the unconscious Sam. The stare he fixed on his brother made Dean's skin crawl.

"You've got some bad injuries between you."

"Bear," John replied without missing a beat. "One caught us in the night."

"We were lucky as hell to escape it," Russell added to the lie. The stranger slid his gaze around the group, his expression laced with unveiled scepticism.

"Must have been one hell of a big bear."

"King Kong huge," Dean murmured, eyeing the rifle still aimed at his father and brother.

"I've lived up here my whole life, and I ain't never seen a bear." The man gave him a tight-lipped smile, but he finally lowered his rifle, his stance less threatening.

John held Sam closer to his chest, shielding the younger boy with his own body, as his stare remained locked on the stranger.

"She caught up with you folk last night – didn't she?" the man continued when John didn't offer a reply. He leaned on the butt of his rifle, his expression knowing.

"She?"

Dean had to admire his father's poker-face. He didn't let a single emotion slide onto his face as he said the word.

"The hag."

Dean barely managed to hide his surprise at the statement, but John's features were still perfectly schooled.

"The hag?"

"The Annis," the man answered.

"You know what it is?" Russell asked, unable to hide his surprise.

"Well, it sure as hell isn't a bear stalking The Black Hills." The man fixed him with a toothy grin that faded just as quickly as it appeared. "I've seen some strange things happen up here in the past. People going missing, disappearing as if they never existed. Animals completely gutted and picked clean of everything apart from the bones.

"Then, about six months ago, there was a string of disappearances all around the same time every month. Hikers, tourists – like yourselves – people who wouldn't be missed, if you catch my drift. Never locals." He glanced up at the sky, his expression ominous when he spoke again. "There's an evil in these woods, an evil that's older than even the trees. It's stalked this place for as long as I can remember."

"Well, you don't need to worry about that any more," Dean muttered. "Grandma's no longer in the land of the living."

He nodded. "I heard her die."

"Where the hell did you come from?" Russell demanded abruptly. "I mean, no offence, but it ain't exactly a bustlin' community out here."

"I've got a cabin not far from here." The man smiled but Dean felt anything but assured by it. "I saw flares in the sky last night, heard the gunshots and figured some folk had gotten themselves into trouble."

Dean wasn't sure he bought this guy's story, and he suspected his father didn't either. John's expression had remained impassive throughout the exchange but Dean recognised the slight tightening around his eyes as suspicion. John didn't trust this guy and that made Dean wary as hell. He sidled closer towards his father and brother.

"You got a phone in this cabin of yours?" John asked. "We need a doctor."

"No - no phone," the man said quietly. "But I got a radio – and a well-stocked first aid kit. You look like you need it."

"The radio - it work?" Joshua asked.

"Enough to call the sheriff's department in Deadwood," the man replied.

John glanced down at Sam, who was still in his arms, his dark bangs plastered to his forehead with sweat.

"Can we use it?"

The stranger nodded. "Follow me."

Dean frowned at the man as he turned his back on the group, glancing at his father. John looked bemused. When no one made to move, the man glanced over his shoulder. "'Course, you could always stay here and freeze your asses off."

John sighed and, with some hesitation, followed the man. Dean and the rest of the group did the same.

"How do you know so much about these creatures?" John asked after a moment.

The man tilted his head to the side and considered him. "I could ask you the same question."

John gave him a tight smile. "Let's just say our line of work is...unusual."

The man nodded but didn't reply. He picked his way around a clump of underbrush and jagged rocks partially hidden underneath the snow. Once he was clear, he stopped and turned back to the group, helping Russell and Joshua with the stretcher.

Dean was almost surprised when the trees thinned out and a battered-looking cabin appeared. He hadn't wanted to trust this guy, but it appeared he had been telling the truth – at least about having a house nearby. The building was well-maintained and almost homey. The outside was clad in thick wooden slats, and a long porch ran the length of the building. There was an old station wagon parked on the dirt driveway in front of the house and a large shed around the side. It didn't scream serial killer, but then Dean was well aware that evil didn't always come wrapped and packaged with a flashing sign. John paused at the steps up to the porch and shot a glance at Joshua. The southern man gave a slight inclination of his head, and followed John up the stairs.

The stranger entered first, pushing the screen door back to open the front door. It swung open with a creak that could have woken the dead. Dean shivered, and it wasn't because of the cold. John entered first, Sam still in his arms, Dean close behind him, pushing his fatigued body to stay alert. If this guy was going to try anything, Dean would be ready.

As he stepped into the cabin, Dean took a moment to study the surroundings. There were two threadbare armchairs by an open hearth and an overly large sofa on the opposite side of the room. A long sideboard hosted an arrangement of photographs and there was a cabinet above it with a number of liquor bottles peeking from behind the glass door. Two small lamps lit the room and the orange glow from the fire made the room seem warmer.

Dean subconsciously strayed towards the flames, his body seeking the heat radiating from the crackling logs, but his eyes continued to scan the room, noting the exits and searching for anything out of the ordinary. He didn't find anything, however.

Joshua and Russell carefully lowered the litter onto the floor, the former kneeling beside Caleb to examine him.

"I'll grab the first aid kit, then see about getting some help up here," the man said, watching as John gently placed Sam on the couch.

"Thanks, uh -" he gestured with his hand.

"Ethan – Ethan Solomon," the stranger offered his hand. John took it without hesitation but Dean noticed the slight tension in the gesture.

"John Winchester."

"Shame we're not meeting under better circumstances, John." Ethan let out a long breath. "I'll be back in a moment."

John watched the stranger move through the double doors into the adjacent room.

"Here's hopin' this guy does have a radio and ain't a friggin' nutcase," Russell said quietly.

"You never did trust people, Russ," Joshua said with a weary smile, glancing up from his examination of the unconscious Caleb.

The older hunter grunted. "Never had much reason to, kid. Besides, call me a cynical bastard, but the guy came out of nowhere, brandishing a rifle. That ain't exactly pullin' at my trust strings."

"Yeah, well, as long as he calls for help first, I couldn't give a shit if he's Annie Wilkes."

Dean moved over to his father and brother, keeping close enough to the fire to soak in the warmth. His entire body felt like a block of ice.

"He OK?" Dean asked, glancing down at his unconscious brother. Underneath the blood, bruises and cuts, Sam's skin was paler than the snow outside.

"He'll be fine," John said a little too quickly, and Dean wasn't sure who his father was trying to reassure – himself or Dean.

"Wish I had your optimism, Johnny," Russell said. He winced as Joshua pulled back the sleeping bag and the gauze covering Caleb's leg. Even from his stance, Dean could see it was messy and, beneath the blood, it was obvious that infection was setting in. The limb had ballooned and was oddly distorted, and the skin was puffy and red. "Christ...Caleb is a goddamn mess."

Carefully, Joshua replaced the gauze and rose to his feet. It didn't look good for Caleb, and everyone in the room knew it. Dean was no doctor, but even he realised it was quite possible that Caleb's leg might not survive this ordeal. If the break was too bad, or the infection too deep...amputation might be the only option. It was a chilling thought, and Dean suddenly understood the lessons his father had drilled into him about being prepared on a hunt. There was too much that could go wrong, as this gig had proven, and the consequences of screwing up were colossal.

"Six weeks in traction, six months physical therapy...He's gonna bitch-slap your ass when he comes round, Russ," Joshua said, slapping his father's shoulder. He gave him a small smile that didn't reach his eyes. The banter was forced, and Dean knew it. He didn't need his little brother's brains to see they were trying to make light of the situation.

"Yeah, well, he's got to come round first," Dean muttered.

Ethan chose that moment to reappear, first aid kit in hand. He handed a stack of clean towels to Joshua and then opened the kit on the sideboard.

"There's alcohol, and some clean gauze. Take what you need."

"The radio?" John questioned.

"It's in the kitchen," Ethan said, gesturing over his shoulder with a slight flick of his head. "We'll see if we can get in touch with anyone down in Deadwood. If not, Central City isn't much further out; we can raise the local authorities there."

John nodded, shooting a glance at Dean. "I'll be back in a second. Take care of your brother."

Dean didn't need to be told, but he got the underlying meaning in John's words; his father still wasn't sure whether to trust this guy or not. Russell, it seemed, wasn't the only one with trust issues.

Dean watched his father's retreating back for a moment before turning to his brother. Kneeling beside him, Dean carefully brushed his blood-stained hair off Sam's face and sighed. His brother had been drifting in and out of consciousness for the last hour or so, but he'd been out of it since the wolf attacked. The sleeping routine was worrying him and he hoped it wasn't indicative of something more sinister. The wounds he could see were bad enough, but it was the internal damage that was more worrying. He'd feel better when the kid was under the supervision of a doctor, and he just hoped this guy, Ethan, would come through for them. Dean wasn't sure he could withstand round three; the first two rounds had been hard enough.

"You better be OK, Sammy," Dean murmured, studying his brother for any sign that he was going to awaken. Sam remained stubbornly still, his chest rising and falling as he took shallow gulps of air. Dean winced. He wished he could fix his brother, take his pain away, but Dean could do nothing but wait and pray.

"How you doing, kid?"

Dean glanced up from his brother as Joshua moved towards the couch, his eyes roving over Sam for a moment before sliding his gaze back to Dean.

"I'm fine," Dean replied quietly. He was anything but fine, but he wasn't about to whine about his own injuries, not when his brother was out cold and Caleb was one step from checking out.

"Well, when we get to the hospital they'll hook you up with some of the good stuff. It'll take the edge off that shoulder of yours." Joshua obviously didn't believe his assurances.

Dean glanced back towards his brother. "You think we can trust this Ethan guy?"

Joshua shrugged. "The guy seems harmless enough – a little odd maybe – but I don't think he's hiding the bodies of hikers under the floorboards." He gave him a wry smile. "Not everything in the world is evil, Dean."

Dean disagreed. The world was full of evil, and sometimes Dean felt like he was drowning in it. Most people didn't have a clue what dwelt in the darkness, didn't know that monsters existed, but Dean couldn't escape it. He'd seen too much over the years, he'd faced too many creatures hell-bent on revenge, willing to murder innocent people to gain closure on their own pain to say evil didn't exist.

And then there were things like the Black Annis.

She wasn't seeking revenge or closure for crimes committed against her; she enjoyed the thrill of the chase and the eventual kill. She was a predator through-and-through, and her only thought was satisfying her blood-lust. She was carnal evil, the worst side of nature. Dean was well aware of the fact that there were hundreds, possibly thousands, of supernatural species like her who acted on the primal instinct to hunt. It was a dog-eat-dog world, and humans weren't as high up the food chain as they liked to think. Worse than that, Dean had seen those same qualities in many people he'd met over the years, people who cared only about their own survival and didn't mind trampling anyone to get what they wanted in life. They weren't as open about it as the Annis, but it was there nevertheless. People could be just as evil as the monsters and demons, more so, in fact, because humans had consciences.

Sometimes, Dean wished he could have his innocence back, that he could just be a naïve seventeen-year-old, but that ship had well and truly sailed. It pained him to admit it, but he could never go back to normal; John would never allow it anyway, but Dean himself knew too much about the supernatural world to pretend it didn't exist. Still, he had tried to protect Sam from it, and so had John.

Since Sam had found out that monsters and demons were real, Dean had tried so hard to shield him from the harsh reality of their lives. It was one thing doing a little research here and there, but John wouldn't allow Sam to hunt with them, and Dean agreed with his father. For nearly four years, the supernatural world had only been legends and myths for his brother, but the Annis had changed all that. Sam had faced two creatures tonight – two dangerous predators – and Dean knew there was no going back.

This was definitely not the kind of hunt Dean had wanted for Sam's first. Dean had wanted back-up, a host of preparation and several well-trained hunters watching his brother's ass. He hadn't wanted his little brother scared, alone and almost flayed while freezing to death.

"Good news," John said as he strode back into the room, Ethan on his heels. "Sheriff's sending a chopper to take us to Lead-Deadwood Hospital."

Joshua flashed Dean a 'told-you-so' look before straightening from the floor beside the couch. "How long?"

"Twenty minutes or so – as long as the weather holds out anyway," Ethan replied, scratching absently at his cheek. "Won't be able to fly that bird if there's a blizzard coming down, but sky looks clear so it should be fine."

Dean let out a relieved sigh, thankful that this nightmare was almost over. He hadn't realised how wrong he was.

* * *

A/N 2 - well, this is the penultimate chapter folks. Last chapter should, hopefully, be up soon. Hope you enjoyed.


	16. Chapter 16

_Firstly, I really really have to apologise for the length of time this story has taken me to finish. It's been a bit of a mental year all round real life wise. I know, not much excuse, but better late than never, right?? There is another chapter after this - which is finished and beta'd. I'm just adding some finishing touches to it so I think it'll be up in the next few days. I'll try not to keep you waiting any longer than necessary, I promise. Believe me, I've been writing this since June 2008; I'll be happy to complete it finally.  
_

_A huge thanks to Leigh for the beta who, as always, makes my stories more readable. Also a huge thanks to everyone who is still reading this. Hope you like._

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

**_Thursday 14 March 1996, Morning_**

Joshua was worried. Caleb's leg was a mess, and the sheen of perspiration beading his friend's skin only heightened his anxiety. Caleb had been out of it for a while; he should have woken by now, and the fact he hadn't was cause for concern.

And it wasn't the only thing that had Joshua's anxiety ratcheting up by the second.

John was kneeling in front of the couch, tending to Sam; Dean hovered close by. John's youngest looked like hell, and Joshua prayed to God that he would pull through. He wasn't sure how John would react if the kid didn't make it. John put a hard face on for the world to see, but Joshua knew how much he cared about his boys; you'd have to be blind not to see it. The problem was Joshua also doted on his father, and although he didn't want to fight John, he wouldn't let the hunter rip into Russ either – despite the fact Russell probably deserved an ass-kicking. It was, after all, Russell's fault they had been dragged into this mess.

Russell was an expert when it came to demons, but he was out of his depth with werewolves. It hadn't stopped him taking off and hunting the thing down like he was Rambo, however. Worried, Joshua had called John for help, not realising that there was also a Black Annis roaming The Black Hills. Things had gone to hell early on in the hunt, and had continued to get steadily worse. Sam had been dragged off to the Annis' lair. The teenager had only been saved from being flayed by Russell; Caleb hadn't been quite so lucky. The Annis' attack had left his leg badly broken, not to mention a number of other serious injuries that Joshua couldn't fix.

He rubbed a weary hand over his face and sighed. Joshua's ribs hurt like hell, every breath sending a shot of agony through his chest, but he focused on Caleb. They'd known each other a long time, and although he wasn't naïve enough to think their lifestyle was without danger, it still cut deeply that his friend was suffering because his father had dragged him into this crusade.

Sometimes, Russell drove him to the proverbial edge. It had been easier when he was a kid; Joshua had followed his dad blindly, trusting that what he was doing was right. As he got older, Joshua came to realise that his father had many faults – impulsiveness being a major one. Russ never took time to think through the consequences of his actions. As a result, Joshua spent most of his adult life pulling Russell out of trouble.

But this... this was different. This wasn't a case of saving his father from something supernatural. Russell's actions had led to two people getting seriously hurt, and Joshua couldn't help but wonder what would happen now.

Would Russell become ostracised by the rest of the hunting world? Would John turn his back on him?

Those thoughts made his stomach twist. John was a cantankerous asshole, but Josh respected him and, if he was honest, he liked the man. He didn't have many friends and, although he wasn't sure that what he and John had was friendship, Josh still didn't want to lose it. Hopefully, this incident wouldn't change that.

Ethan was fixing them a hot drink in the kitchen, the sound of cups clinking filtering through the open double doors that led to the back of the cabin. The man had been twitchy since he'd let them into his home, disappearing from the room almost as soon as they entered it. Joshua didn't blame him; they had been wandering around The Hills, armed to the hilt, looking like they had escaped a war zone. That was enough to make anyone on edge. But it wasn't their host's behaviour that had caught Joshua's attention; it was Russell's.

His father was scanning the room casually – almost too casually. Joshua watched as Russell moved across the floor with measured steps, stopping to study the pictures on the sideboard before carefully pulling the top drawer open a little to peer inside it.

"What are you doing?" Joshua demanded.

Russell glanced up, closing the drawer before moving to the one beneath it. "Lookin' for quarters. What the hell d'ya think I'm doing?"

_So, it was going to be one of those conversations. _Joshua let out a long suffering breath.

"I think you're acting like a crazy person. What are you expecting to find in there? Body parts? The still-beating heart of an infant? A head in jar?" Joshua drawled, unable to stop the sarcasm from slipping out. He was angry with Russell for putting them all in this situation. He'd die for his father, but at times he wanted to throttle him.

"Excuse me for being goddamn cautious, Josh, but we don't know jack-shit about this guy," Russell hissed in a hushed whisper. Joshua rolled his eyes.

"How frigging hard did you hit your head?" He was used to his father's paranoia, but it was grating on his nerves. Joshua was too tired to play games or humour him. Their host hadn't done anything to make them suspicious of him; in fact, the man had been nothing but accommodating.

Russell scowled. "Didn't I teach you anythin', boy? Besides, the run of bad luck we've had, this asshole is as likely to bludgeon us to death as he is to help us. I'll believe he's on our damn side when that chopper arrives, and not a moment before."

There was little point trying to reason with Russell when he was in this frame of mind. Joshua chose the moral high ground and ignored him.

Uncapping the bottle of water Ethan had given him earlier, Joshua liberally poured it over a towel and gently wiped it across Caleb's brow. The heat radiating off the arms dealer was another cause for concern, but Joshua couldn't do much about that here. He wasn't sure if it was infection setting in, shock or exposure – or all three – that was causing his fever, but Joshua hoped the cold compress would help.

"C'mon, Caleb," he muttered, wiping a clump of dried blood from the side of his friend's face. "Any time you wanna wake up, man." He frowned at the lack of response from the younger hunter and roved his gaze over his clammy face.

There were black smudges under his eyes that made his pallid skin seem even more pale. The only colour he had were from his flushed cheeks and the trails of dried blood on his face. Carefully, Joshua pulled back the coverings over his legs, mindful his wounds. There was nothing he could do here aside from keeping the site clean; Caleb needed a surgeon, and Joshua's knowledge of medicine was limited. He could patch up most injuries - he'd had to do it for his father since he was seven years old - but he wasn't a doctor, and this was far beyond his capabilities.

"There's a pot of coffee in the kitchen." Joshua glanced up at the sound of Ethan's voice. "Help yourselves."

Their host moved into the room, shifting nervously on his feet, which seemed to further fuel Russell's suspicions. Joshua watched his father's eyes narrow as he focused his intense gaze on the man.

"Thanks," John said. The tension in the room was palpable.

"So how'd you know about the Annis." The question came out of nowhere, but Russell's tone was laced with mistrust. Joshua shot a glare at him, but his father's attention was solely on Ethan.

Ethan met Russell's questioning eyes, his own expression hard. "I told you; I've lived up here my whole life. You hear things, see things that you can't explain."

"Did you ever see _her_?" John asked curiously.

"Once," Ethan admitted, his lips twisting into a grim line. "I was working out the back of the cabin. She came out of the trees. Scariest moment of my life. I thought she was going to kill me right there, but she watched me for a moment and then took off. I didn't see her after that... but I heard her." His tone sent a chill racing through Joshua.

"You heard her murdering innocent people and you did _nothing_?" Russell demanded, his disgust evident.

Ethan snapped his eyes towards him. "What the hell was I supposed to do? I didn't know what she was back then, and even if I had, she would have ripped me apart. Besides, I told the sheriff – and every other asshole in Deadwood that would listen – what was going on, but they thought I was off my damn head. For a long while, I thought I was crazy myself."

The tension between Russell and Ethan made Joshua's mouth dry. His father had a short fuse and, considering what they had been through in the last twenty-four hours, he was more likely to shoot first and ask questions later.

"How did you figure out what she was?" Joshua asked, trying to diffuse the atmosphere. It worked – briefly.

Ethan's smile was wry. "A hell of a lot of reading. I finally came across an article about Black Annis's. I thought the whole thing was buckets of insane, but I knew that's what she was as soon as I clapped eyes on it. " Ethan let out a long breath, sinking onto the arm of the chair. "Like I said, no one believed me when I tried to warn the authorities... but then, I wouldn't believe me either. It's frigging crazy."

Joshua snorted softly. People outside the hunting community never believed what was right in front of them. Even when presented with overwhelming evidence that proved the existence of the supernatural, they still refused to admit it. Joshua understood it, he really did, but it made their job so much harder than it needed to be.

"Yeah, well, crazy or not, these things exist," Joshua said quietly as he gently mopped Caleb's brow once more. "Ghosts, ghouls, vampires, werewolves... Every horror movie you've ever seen is based on somethin' real."

Ethan's expression was almost comical as Joshua's words sunk in. "You're saying there are other _things_ out there? Other _monsters_?"

Joshua shot him a dark grin. "Scary, ain't it?"

A visible shudder ran through the man. "And you folks – what? Follow these..._ things_?"

"Hunt them," Joshua corrected. "We ain't exactly keen to encourage integration."

"This shit ain't some sappy teen supernatural movie," Russell spat testily.

Joshua raised a brow at that. "I didn't think teen movies even registered on your radar, Russ."

His father shot him a glare. "You'd be surprised by the shit I know, kid." Joshua didn't fail to miss the undertone of that. His father was still annoyed that he had come to 'save' him. He saw Joshua's interference as a insult to his hunting abilities.

"Like how to plan a proper hunt?" Joshua snapped before he could stop himself. He knew Russell was partly to blame for the situation, but most of it was down to bad luck – and there was no plan in the universe that could get around that. Russell's retort was halted by Ethan speaking.

"Is that what you were doing up here? Hunting her?" Ethan looked a little sickened by the prospect, his face paling.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Russell snarled. "These creatures ain't exactly friendly; most of them are cold-hearted murderers. You start seein' them as human, you might as well kiss your ass goodbye 'cause they ain't gonna show you the same respect."

Ethan exhaled deeply. His eyes were staring at the floor, but Joshua had the feeling he wasn't really seeing anything. "Well, thank God for folk like you."

Russell frowned, perturbed by Ethan's answer. Joshua knew he had been waiting for some kind of retaliation; his father seemed disappointed that he didn't get it.

"Yeah," Russell muttered, "we're a bunch of goddamn heroes."

Scrubbing a hand over his white beard, Ethan retreated into himself, his expression pensive. He was handling the revelation much better than most civilians, but Joshua surmised that was more to do with the fact he had already been introduced to an Annis. She was the holy grail of the supernatural world, the crème de la crème. Even John had never seen one before last night. Ghosts, vampires and werewolves paled in comparison.

"I can't believe this is happening," Ethan murmured, his eyes wide. "I mean, the hag... she was bad enough, but the other stuff..." He ran his fingers through his hair, muttering under his breath. "This is crazy."

"Crazy or not, this shit exists," Joshua told him softly.

Ethan glanced up from the spot he'd been staring at on the floor. "How in the hell do you get involved in this kind of thing?"

Joshua's mouth twisted into a grimace but he didn't offer an answer. He wasn't about to spill his unhappy childhood to a stranger.

"Most hunters ain't born into this crap."

Joshua glanced up at his father's reply, deeper emotions barely visible beneath the steely gaze Russell aimed at Ethan.

"You're saying this is a lifestyle choice?" Ethan was staring at them as if they had lost their minds. To an outsider, Joshua surmised that was probably how it did look. Who in their right mind _would_ go looking for monsters? Maybe they were crazy.

"I lost my whole damn family to these things," Russell snarled, "and I'll hunt down and kill every last one of them until the day I draw my last damn breath."

Ethan shrank back from the harsh tone. "Sorry, I didn't realise –"

"It's fine," Joshua cut in before Russell had a chance to reply. "You didn't know."

"What's all the yellin' 'bout?" The slurred voice made Joshua start. He lowered his gaze quickly and was surprised to see Caleb's eyes were open, although just barely. The injured man swallowed hard, his Adams apple bobbing as his glassy gaze slid sideways.

"Russell's got his panties in a twist," Joshua said, relief layering his words. The knots in his shoulders uncoiled a little as he studied Caleb's pale face. His lids were heavy and his eyes didn't seem focused but he was awake, and that was a good sign.

"Makes a change," Caleb murmured, his eyes sliding shut.

"If you weren't already injured..." Russell left the threat hanging as he moved over to Caleb, his argument with Ethan temporarily forgotten. There was little bite in his tone, however. He was just as relieved as Joshua that the man was alive. "Hey, hey, eyes open, Caleb." Russell tapped his cheek lightly, his brow creased with anxiety as the arms dealers lids remained closed. "Caleb! Open your damn eyes!" Russell snapped, rubbing his knuckles up and down the younger hunter's sternum.

It had the desired affect.

Caleb complied, albeit slowly, his eyes prising apart as he pushed weakly against Russell's fist on his breastbone.

"Stop doin' that," Caleb bit, his tone verging on whiny. Russell did as instructed, sitting back on his heels.

"How you feelin', kid?" Russell asked, concern lacing his tone.

Caleb's eyes shuttered in slow motion. "Like I've been shoved through a grinder."

"Sounds 'bout right," Russell agreed. "That bitch did one helluva number on you."

John had moved over to the small group and knelt beside Caleb, thumbing his lids up to look at his pupils. Caleb twisted his head away, groaning like a child. "For godsake's, John! Can't a guy rest in peace?" The words were slurred but the fact he was snapping made more of the tension drain out of Joshua.

"You've done enough sleeping to last a life time," John said quietly. "Just ask Russ and Joshua. They've hauled your heavy ass the whole way down that mountain."

Caleb was still again and, for a moment, Joshua thought he had succumbed to the pull of unconsciousness. He was a little surprised when the arms dealer prised one eye open.

"Down the mountain? This doesn't smell like a hospital." He frowned, his sweaty brow deeply lined. "Where the hell are we? Don't tell me we're still in The frigging Hills."

"You try dragging your ass through the snow on a concussion and see how far you get," Russell shot back.

Joshua resisted the urge to smack his father, opting to keep his attention on Caleb instead. "We're still in The Hills, but help is en route. Don't worry, Caleb; we're getting the hell out of Dodge one way or another."

Even through the veil of pain, Caleb's expression was sceptical. "How?"

"We uh... found some help," John answered with a measure of uncertainty, shooting a sidelong glance at Ethan. He was evidently as paranoid as Russ, just better at hiding it. Joshua resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Hunters were a prickly group, but Russ and John took it to a whole new level.

"Help?" he asked at the dubious tone, his brow furrowing.

"A chopper is coming courtesy of Lawrence County. You're getting a first-class ride to an first-rate medical facility in Deadwood," Joshua replied, shooting John and his father a pointed glare. Caleb was already apprehensive; there was no need for the two hunters to make things worse – especially when they had no proof that Ethan was a bad guy.

"Hospital sounds good," Caleb mumbled. "No offence."

Joshua smirked at the insinuation, shifting his gaze towards his father and John. "Don't worry, Caleb, I won't let Dr. Frankenstein and Fritz put you back together again."

Russell scowled at him. "Ungrateful brat."

Caleb's eyes were closing again, the interval between open and shutting becoming longer and longer. The fact he had woken up at all had eased some of Joshua's anxiety, although he knew Caleb wasn't out of the woods yet. There was still a chance the man could lose his leg – possibly even his life. He pushed the dark thoughts out of his head and focused on the present.

"How long is this damn helicopter gonna be?" Joshua demanded, cutting his gaze to Ethan. The older man recoiled a little at his sharp tone, and Joshua felt instantly contrite; the guy was already freaking out.

"I don't know," Ethan replied, flicking his eyes between the three hunters, his expression wary. Faced with three hulking hunters, Joshua understood apprehension – especially considering Russell's open hostility towards him. "Sheriff said he was loading up right away."

Joshua felt helpless. The longer they had to wait, the less chance Caleb had of surviving this. It was frustrating. Help was almost within reach, and yet Joshua was all too aware that it could come too late for his friend. To lose him after everything they had been through...

He held his breath and prayed to anyone who would listen. He was still praying when the helicopter arrived, when he was thanking Ethan for his help and when they loaded Caleb and Sam into the back of the chopper. Even as it lifted off to rush the two injured men to the hospital, Joshua continued to pray his ass off.

**

Dean was traumatised. Of course, his anguish didn't compare to the things he'd seen in the last twenty-four hours – his brother almost being flayed by the Annis and his father wrestling a werewolf barehanded would stay with him for a long time – but _this_ was definitely the icing on the cake. Dean would rather face the blue-faced grandma with a penchant for flesh. Single-handedly. Armed with a stick.

"You OK, kiddo?" Joshua shouted to be heard, despite the fact Dean could hear him clearly in the bulky headphones clamped over his ears. He didn't miss the faint hint of amusement in his voice. "You look like you're gonna hurl."

"I'm fantastic. Just frigging great," Dean muttered, lowering his head onto his chest as he took deep breaths through his nose and increased his one-handed grip on the edge of the chair, attempting to avoid looking out of the window to the side of him.

He didn't manage it.

It was only brief but in that sweeping glance he clearly saw the ground beneath them... about 8,000 feet beneath them. Tiny farmsteads littered the wooded landscape, nestled within the valley and he was sure he saw a town just beyond that. Dean squeezed his eyes shut, fighting to keep his stomach under control.

"Just absolutely frigging peachy," he added with a moan. His brain was sure he'd left his stomach back at Ethan's cabin. In fact, he was sure he had.

Joshua shook his head. "You can take a gun apart in thirty seconds, fight creatures of the night without blinkin' an eye but one little ride in a helicopter and you're a pile of goo."

Dean pried one eye open cautiously and gave Joshua what he hoped was a glare. "I'm _not_ a pile of goo." It was a complete lie. He closed his eyes once more, bracing himself as the chopper rolled to one side a little. "It's just not natural," he groaned.

He took a deep breath through his nose, trying to ignore the roaring of the helicopter's rotors above him.

Sam, Caleb and John had been taken in the first trip to the hospital – the first two the more seriously hurt of the group, the latter wanting to stay with more seriously injured son – leaving Joshua, Russell and Dean to go in the second trip. Dean was starting to wish he'd insisted on walking to the hospital – even if it took a week to get there.

Joshua laughed, patting his leg, and leaned back in his seat with an ease that Dean wished he could find. "Just keep breathing, Dean; you'll be fine."

Dean straightened up, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling of the chopper, trying to block out the landscape encroaching on his peripheral vision. This was hell. Dean never wanted to fly again as long as he lived. He could feel every little movement, every twist and turn the helicopter took. It would rise a little and then drop a few feet in the air, and every time it did, Dean's stomach somersaulted.

Russell sat next to him, firmly strapped into the chair, his head tilted to the side, his jaw slack, his eyes closed. Dean had no idea how the man was could sleep – unless it was the concussion. He wanted to get the hell off this ride now. He'd had about as much as he could take. His gaze accidently strayed to the window once more and Dean instantly squeezed his eyes shut.

"Shit," he muttered, swallowing the bile that was burning the back of his throat. "You think Sam's OK?" Dean needed to take his mind off flying, and talking about the current situation was the only thing he could think of.

"He's probably melting the docs right now. Ain't no one can resist the Winchester charm, kiddo."

"I hope so."

Sam had to be okay. There was no room for negotiation on the matter. Dean needed his little brother in one piece, and he would do whatever it took to make sure that was the case. His stomach lurched as his mind drifted to the injuries Sam had sustained in the last twenty-four hours. Would there be scarring from the cuts the Annis had inflicted to his arms? Were his ribs broken? Did he have a concussion? Was there any internal damage? The list went on and on, and Dean's head felt overwhelmed by the scope of his brother's injuries. They could dress this whole situation up, but they had brushed closer to death than Dean ever wanted to venture again.

"I'll call Bobby or Jim Murphy when we land – see if either of them has room at the inn," Joshua said after a moment, pulling Dean out of his tumultuous thoughts, Joshua's eyes were locked on the window, his face filled with curiosity as he studied the landscape below the chopper.

Dean took a shaky breath. "Dad'll want to get on the road as soon as Sammy's well enough to travel." He pulled absently as the blanket wrapped around his shoulders slipped and managed to get it back into place with his good arm. He still felt like a block of ice, but he was starting to get feeling back in his limbs which was both a blessing and a curse. His hands were tingling, and he was starting to get pins and needles in his feet.

"Not for you guys – for Caleb. The guy ain't got any family that I know of, but he's close to Singer and the pastor. He's gonna need a helluva lot of help to recuperate." Joshua's mouth pulled into a tight line momentarily before he shook himself. "I'd put him up at my apartment, but I don't think he's gonna be able to travel for a while."

Dean knew Joshua had a place on the outskirts of Salt Lake City, although he'd never been there. Caleb wouldn't be able to make the trip for a while, not with the injuries he had. Dean nodded absently, sucking in a breath through his teeth. He appreciated Joshua's attempt to distract him.

"Bobby's closer," Dean answered after a brief pause.

"Yeah, but I ain't sure that old bastard'll put up with Caleb while he's getting back on his feet." He smiled fondly, clearly recalling some old memory of the mechanic. "He ain't exactly known for his patience, and his bedside manner sucks."

"I'll tell him you said that," Dean said, his lips curling upwards at the corners.

Joshua shrugged. "Ain't nothing I ain't said to his damn face. Bobby can be a cantankerous asshole when he wants to be."

Most hunters were. Pastor Jim and Caleb were the exceptions to the rule, but Dean figured it was because of the lifestyle they lived. They both had things outside of hunting. Jim had his church duties, and Caleb had his work with the US military to keep him occupied.

The chopper tilted to one side suddenly and Dean hissed.

"How friggin' far is this hospital?" he demanded breathlessly. His tone held a hint of hysteria that was disconcerting.

Joshua grinned while trying to look sympathetic. "Can't be too far now. Ethan said it's on the outskirts of town."

_Ethan..._

Despite Dean's, John's and Russell's misgivings, the guy hadn't turned out to be a nutcase or a serial killer. Dean still hadn't trusted the man – not until the moment the helicopter was roaring over the cabin – and for that he did feel a little guilty. They owed Ethan more than Dean could ever repay, and he was just thankful as hell that the world had finally decided to cut them a break. Without his help, Caleb probably would have checked out permanently, and Sam...

Well, Dean didn't even want to think about it.

His brother hadn't woken once in the whole time they'd been in Ethan's cabin. In fact, his little brother hadn't even stirred when Search and Rescue had loaded him onto the helicopter using winches; they hadn't been able to land because of the trees. That was worrying. Dean knew his brother had been through a lot in the last twenty-four hours, and while Sam was often taciturn, Dean wasn't used to him being so silent. It unnerved him.

Dean wasn't sure why Sam hadn't regained consciousness. His injuries were bad, but Dean didn't think they warranted Sam's permanent snoozing. Perhaps it was blood loss, or a concussion, or perhaps it was a side effect of his chest infection; Dean didn't know, but he was hoping his brother would be conscious by the time he reached the hospital.

The town of Deadwood snuck up on them quickly. Moments ago it had been a tiny dot on the horizon, but then, when Dean risked a peek, it was looming beneath them. One main road ran the length of the town, a handful of streets branching of it. Buildings were getting closer as the helicopter descended and Dean found his eyes closing of their own volition.

Landing was horrendous. The chopper seemed to roar angrily as it began its vertical descent, and it hit the ground heavily, jolting Dean. He tensed in his seat and swallowed hard .

"Never again..." Dean vowed under his breath.

Joshua grinned at him. "Flying ain't that bad, kid."

Dean shot him a glare, but didn't reply, concentrating instead on taking deep breaths.

The helicopter doors slid open, and the EMT leaned into the back of the chopper. His head was covered with a bulky helmet, and his blue jump suit was zipped up to his neck, Air Ambulance embroidered on the breast. Dean couldn't remember the guy's name, although he was sure he had told him when he was strapped to him being winched aboard.

Pressing the release button on his seatbelt, Dean eased himself off his chair, mindful not to jostle his shoulder. He wanted to get onto solid ground more than anything.

Carefully, he climbed out of the helicopter, ducking down as the rotors whirled overhead. The huge blades were slowing down, no longer a circular blur but the downwash was pushing against his exhausted body, threatening to topple him. Dean gripped the door frame of the chopper to steady himself, brushing off the EMT when he reached out to support him.

Dean tested his legs. They felt detached, but the feel of the asphalt beneath him was enough to get him moving. He wanted to get as far away as possible from the helicopter.

He took a few tentative steps forward before coming to a halt. A nurse was waiting on the open roof by the elevator, just beyond the helicopter. She had wrapped her arms around her middle, warding off the burst of wind from the chopper, her hair flapping wildly around her face. She was young, pretty, and blonde. Normally Dean would have flirted outrageously, but he was too exhausted to even try.

There was a wheelchair in front of her and as Dean approached her, she gestured towards the chair. Dean cut his gaze towards the EMT, his brow raised questioningly.

"Doctors orders."

Dean shook his head stubbornly. "I can walk. I don't need a frigging wheelchair." He'd dislocated his shoulder; his legs were fine. Unfortunately, he lost his case as his knees buckled. It was only the quick reflexes of the nurse and the EMT that stopped Dean from face-planting.

"And that's why you're riding the chair," the EMT said firmly.

Together, they lowered Dean into the wheelchair. He didn't protest this time. He was exhausted and, if he was being honest, there was no way he could walk anywhere. Once he knew his brother was okay, he just wanted to lie down and sleep for a month.

The nurse pushed the chair into the open elevator and pressed the button for the first floor. It was a small hospital and Dean noticed there were only four floors altogether. Joshua and Russell filed in, both men walking, their shoulders rounded with fatigue. Russell was also favouring his left leg as he moved.

"How's my brother's doing?" Dean asked, glancing up at the nurse. The badge pinned to her blue scrubs named her as 'Allison Reed'.

"Last I heard, they'd taken him down to surgery." Allison gave him a sympathetic smile that said more than any words. No doubt she had been told their cover story by John. They'd gone hiking, got lost and been attacked by a bear. It wasn't much of a tale, but it would suffice – at least enough to keep them off the authorities radar until Sam was able to travel again. "Doctor Riley is working on him; she's the best surgeon in the hospital. Your brother is in good hands."

"And Caleb Miller?" Russell asked, leaning back against the wall of the elevator, his weather-beaten face lined with deep-seated exhaustion.

"They took him into the OR before Sam. I don't think he's out yet." Her tone was evasive this time, and that was worrying.

"He's OK, though?" Joshua questioned.

Allison gave him a tight-lipped smile. "I can find out for you."

Her attempt at assurance didn't exactly fill Dean with confidence, and he fell into an uneasy silence. He was worried about Sam, but Caleb was a good man, too. Dean hoped to hell they would both be all right.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The hospital was bustling. Doctors and nurses in green scrubs swept up and down the corridors purposefully. John sank back further into the plastic chair, his head resting against the wall as he stared up at the ceiling. It had been over six hours since they had been flown to Lead-Deadwood Hospital. Sam and Caleb had both been in surgery the entire time and Dean was now having a CT scan after his wounds were cleaned and dressed. John didn't know what the hell to do with himself. His anxiety levels had reached capacity. He wanted this to be over, to know that his sons were both going to be fine and to be on his way.

Dean's injuries had been bad. Three broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, massive bruising and cuts to his torso and abdomen and a concussion to boot. John vaguely recalled talk of internal bleeding from the doctor, which, thankfully, had not been the case. Every word out of the doctor's mouth had added fuel to his already burning guilt. He had put both his boys in danger, had allowed this situation to spiral out of control, and that was difficult to swallow. He spent most of his time trying to protect his sons, to keep them safe from the evil that existed in the world, and he had failed. Worse still was that this failing was on his head. It was a situation that could have been prevented to an extent. He should have taken Sam to Jim's or Bobby's; he should have listened to Dean when he'd suggested it. His own stubbornness had prevented that course of action, and now they were in the hospital.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, John let out a weary sigh. They would be OK because they had to be. John couldn't lose anyone else; losing his wife had torn his soul apart, but losing either of his boys was unthinkable. Dean would be fine, he'd heal with time, but Sam... He had no idea how his youngest was. It had been hours since anyone had come to update him, and John felt utterly helpless.

Surgery... _Christ_...

John scrubbed a hand over his chin and then leaned forwards on the plastic chair, elbows resting on his knees. This was a disaster. He didn't even want to think about the damage the Annis had caused his son.

"Johnny?"

He glanced up at the sound of his name and watched as Joshua moved towards him with measured steps. The younger man was dressed in a hospital scrub top, his forearms wrapped in pristine white bandages, mirroring John's own. His chestnut hair was damp, hanging in limp strands around his pallid face and he was carrying two styrofoam cups in his hand. He offered one to John, who took it with a murmur of thanks before dropping into the chair next to him.

"Doc give you the all clear?" John asked after a brief silence.

"Yeah," Joshua said, raking his fingers through his hair before pulling off the lid and blowing the steam from the coffee. "I'll heal – in time. Just gotta keep the cuts clean. Doc wanted to keep me in, but ain't a chance in hell I'm staying."

John sighed deeply, gripping the cup two-handed, his cold fingers greedily drinking in the warmth.

"Russ OK?" Joshua tensed at the mention of his father, and John's anxiety ratcheted up a notch. "Josh?" he questioned.

Joshua let out a long suffering breath. "Russ'll be fine. Concussion, some pretty nasty gashes to his back, but hell, it could have been a lot worse." He snorted softly. "He ain't exactly thrilled about the prospect of staying over night, but shit happens. He'll get over it."

The tension continued to grow as Joshua fell silent, and John wasn't quite sure what the problem was. After a couple of minutes, he couldn't stand it any longer.

"Spill it, kid. What's wrong?"

Joshua snapped his eyes to him before averting his gaze, his brow furrowed. "What the hell happens now?"

John was confused. "Not sure I'm following."

The look Joshua shot at him was sceptical. "This shit all happened 'cause of my damn father. I wouldn't blame you if you wanted retribution, man, but that's kinda gonna put me and you in an awkward position." Joshua gave him a wry smile. "The guy's a moron but he's the only family I've got left. As much as I feel like blowing his ass into the next state, I ain't sure I can let you do it, Johnny."

John frowned at him. Revenge had been the furthest thing on his mind. "What happened was as much my fault as Russell's."

Joshua laughed darkly. "Really? 'Cause I'm pretty sure it was my idiot of a father who decided to rough-house with a goddamn flesh-eating monster." He let out a shaky breath. "He screwed up big time. Your son is in friggin' surgery because of Russ. I ain't buying that you don't want to pound his face in."

Licking his lips, his blood freezing at the thought of what Sam had endured, John shook his head. "What happened to Sam is on me, not you, not your Dad, not anyone else," he told him firmly. "As for Russ..." He paused to collect his strewn thoughts. "What he did was reckless, and damn stupid, I won't deny that. But this job isn't without risks, Josh. We both know that. Fact is, Sam should never have been there – end of story. And that... that's on me."

"You didn't know this was gonna happen, man."

"I appreciate the pep-talk, but I know I screwed up," John admitted quietly. He just prayed his mistakes weren't going to cause him to lose the most important thing in his life: his son.

Sinking back into the seat, Joshua exhaled loudly. "What a friggin' mess this shit is."

John snorted. "I'd say that was putting it lightly."

His attention was snared suddenly as Dean appeared from a room off the waiting room. Still in a wheelchair, his son was garbed in a hospital gown, a blue-blanket covering his legs. His face was bruised, a couple of steri-strips holding together a deep gash on his temple and his arm was in a sling. He looked tired, his eyes sunken, black shadows beneath them. John felt a bolt of alarm run through him as he took in his eldest son's appearance.

"You OK?" John asked instantly, getting to his feet.

Dean nodded slowly. "I'm fine, Dad." His sluggish movements and creased brow suggested otherwise.

"Is he OK?" John directed the question at the nurse this time.

"Once the test results comes back we'll know more." John didn't need a million dollar scanner to know his son had a concussion; he could tell by looking at him. "He needs to rest. He should be in bed." She shot Dean a pointed glare; his eldest had obviously argued about that.

"I'll make sure he gets some sleep," John assured her. The nurse looked more satisfied as she turned and walked up the corridor.

Dean watched her go with a scowl, waiting until she had disappeared around the corner before he spoke. "Any word on Sam and Caleb?"

"Not yet," John answered, frowning at the side-step his eldest had taken.

Dean scowled, "What the hell is taking so long?"

"As soon as they know somethin', I'm sure they'll let us know," Joshua assured him with a smile that only intensified Dean's expression.

"It's been frigging ages," Dean snapped. "Would it kill them to at least let us know what's going on in there?"

John understood his son's frustration; he felt just the same. Patience was not a Winchester forte.

It was a full hour before Doctor Riley, Sam's surgeon, made an appearance. Dressed in scrubs, blue shoe protectors covering her feet, and a multicoloured cap pulled over her dark hair, she walked hurriedly over to the small group. She was in her forties, her lightly tanned skin giving her a youthful edge. She smiled reassuringly.

"Sam's in recovery," she told them. "He had some bleeding to his kidneys, which I repaired, but I couldn't save his spleen. He'll be more susceptible to infections in the future, but he's a healthy kid; I don't see any problems resulting from this."

"What about his arms? He was mauled pretty badly." Mauled... more like an attempted flaying, but John kept that to himself.

"It was a bear attack, right?" Doctor Riley asked.

"Yeah – a bear," John replied tightly, his eyes locked on hers. John had learned to lie over the years, and he knew how to read liars. He wouldn't plant the seed of doubt in her mind by averting his gaze. She nodded after a moment and sighed.

"I'm hoping the scarring will be minimal, but it's too early to tell. We'll have to see how they heal. His back and legs, too," she added grimly.

John let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. Scarring was bad, but not the end of the world. They could deal with that. It was better than the alternative.

"He's got a severe concussion," Doctor Riley continued. "We'll monitor him over night, and send him for another CT scan in the morning – make sure the swelling has gone down. We're still trying to bring his core temperature back up to normal levels, and his chest infection mixed with the prolonged exposure runs the risk of pneumonia. I've prescribed him some heavy dose antibiotics. Hopefully we can nip it in the bud before infection has a chance to set in." She placed a hand on John's arm, warm and reassuring. "He's not out of the woods yet but, with the right treatment, the prognosis is promising."

John nodded mutely, his head reeling. It didn't sound promising, in fact it sounded completely hopeless.

"Can we see him?" Dean asked, dragging John out of his reverie.

"He's still a little groggy from the anaesthetic, but you can see him for a little while."

"What about Caleb Miller?" Joshua asked quietly, his tone suggesting he wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer. John felt the same way.

Doctor Riley's expression became sombre. "Mr Miller sustained serious injuries, as I'm sure you're aware. I didn't operate on him, but my colleague, Doctor Ramirez, did. I'll have him come and explain further to you, but he managed to save the leg."

"What about the other injuries?" Joshua probed cautiously. Caleb had received a nasty wound to his side as well as the broken leg. John was sure his loss of consciousness had been due to blood loss and shock of both wounds, but he was also aware that there could be something more sinister going on with the man.

"I'm not sure, I'm sorry." She smiled again, the gesture laced with sympathy that grated on John's nerves. They didn't need her to feel sorry for them; they needed answers. "I'll see if Doctor Ramirez is finished in the OR and ask him to come and talk to you."

"Thanks, Doc," Joshua said.

"You're welcome. I'll have one of my team come and get you once Sam is settled in a room," and with that she swept up the corridor back towards the OR. John watched her go with a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't sure if he felt reassured by her words or not.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean studied his younger brother with a heavy feeling lodged in the pit of his stomach. Sam looked so vulnerable in the hospital bed, his bare chest covered with pads that led to a machine at the side of his bed, tubes snaking out of the crook of his arm and the back of his hand. Bruises covered his entire torso, a smattering of purple and black amongst a sea of cuts and scrapes that disappeared beneath the fresh white bandages wrapped around his chest. His pallid face was also marred with nicks and gashes, a particularly nasty one on his temple. Dean sighed deeply, scrubbing a hand down his face. He would have taken every cut and bruise if he could; he hated seeing Sam so hurt.

"C'mon Sammy, any time you want to wake up, dude..." he muttered to the silent patient, hoping his plea would illicit a response. Sam remained still and resolute in his unconsciousness, however, and Dean let out another sigh, this time laced with frustration. "I know I said you were narcolepsy boy, but this is taking it too far."

The doctor had said it would be a while before Sam woke up but Dean needed to talk to his brother to know he was going to be OK. Things had gotten hairy out in The Hills. Dean was used to living on the edge, but he wasn't used to having his brother balanced there with him. He didn't resent his father for the lifestyle they lived – they were helping people, saving lives, stopping others from feeling the same pain they had when Mary had been murdered – but Dean never expected this crusade could cost him the most important thing in his life: his brother. It was a price Dean was not willing to pay.

They'd trained Sam in combat, how to fight, how to protect himself, but this hunt had proven one thing: they hadn't prepared Sam nearly enough. He'd been like a lamb to the slaughter, and while the Black Annis had been a formidable foe, Dean couldn't help but think that Sam had been ill-prepared to deal with her. That could never happen again. Dean needed to know that his brother could look after himself when he wasn't there to do it.

"Hey," John moved into the room slowly, a packaged sandwich in his hand. He passed it to Dean before sinking into the chair next to him, studying him. "How you doing?"

"Fine," Dean instantly replied, his eyes lowering to the sandwich before he placed it on the night stand. He wasn't hungry, and the though of food made his stomach twist.

John's eyes strayed towards Sam as he lent against the metal bed rails. For a moment, Dean thought his father was going to reach out, push back the unruly bangs trailing into his brother's closed eyes, but John didn't move.

"Sam woken up yet?" he asked after a long pause.

Dean shook his head. "No, not yet." He glanced hopefully at the unconscious form of his brother, sure that if anyone's presence could pull Sam out of his sleep it would be his father's. Dean let out a frustrated breath when his brother didn't rouse. "Any news on Caleb?"

John's lips drew into a tight line. "He's still in surgery." He gave a weary shake of his head before sinking into the plastic chair at the side of the bed. Leaning forward, his hands clasped in front of him, John lowered his head, his shoulder drooping. Dean studied his father, the silence thick between them. John looked exhausted, and not just physically. Dean had never seen him so dejected.

"I'm sorry, Dean." It was said quietly, so quietly Dean barely heard him.

"For what?"

John raised his head, his expression wry. "For everything," he said, his forehead furrowing. "Losing your mom was..." he broke off, scrubbing a hand across his stubbled chin, his eyes haunted.

Dean had never seen his father like this, not since the night his mom died. Dean didn't remember much about the weeks after Mary's death, but he recalled the night of the fire vividly. He remembered how lost John had been, how broken. He wanted to reassure his father that Sam wasn't dead, that this wasn't the same, but he couldn't make his voice work. "The world is full of shit, Dean, full of evil and hurt and pain. I wish I could protect you from it. I _should_ have protected you both from it."

"You can't protect us from everything," Dean said softly.

This time John did reach out. Gently, he brushed his fingers over Sam's hand before taking hold of it.

"I screwed up." John closed his eyes tightly and let out a shaky breath.

"Dad –" Dean's voice cracked with emotions he hadn't realised he was feeling. It hurt to see his father this way. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

John's eyes were resolute when he reopened them.

"I won't always be around to protect you and your brother, and I won't leave you unprotected any longer." The words hung ominously in the air, and Dean felt a cold chill run up his spine, but this hunt had highlighted one problem: on his own, Sam was vulnerable. He needed to know how to fight. He needed to know how to save himself when there was no one else there to save him.

"Johnny?"

The sound of his name had John's eyes snapping towards the door. Dean twisted in his seat to glance over his shoulder. Joshua was stood in the doorway, his expression grim. John got slowly to his feet.

"What's wrong?"

Joshua let out a low breath, brushing his dark hair out of his face. "Caleb's out of surgery."

"And?" John demanded.

Dean's heart raced a staccato beat.

"The doc threw a whole load of medical mumbo-jumbo at me that I didn't understand. What I managed to glean was that they saved his leg, but he's got some pretty bad internal damage." He rubbed a hand over his eyes wearily. "The doc kept harpin' on about the next twenty-four hours being critical. Damned if I know why they can't just give you a straight answer."

"You called Bobby?" John asked.

Joshua nodded, moving into the room.

"He'll be here within the hour." He studied Sam's prone form with a deep frown, his lips drawn into a tight line. "The kid still not woken up yet?"

No one answered. Joshua sighed deeply. "He'll be fine – so will Caleb."

Dean wished he had Joshua's optimism, but he wouldn't believe it until they were both awake and talking. Sam didn't seem to be in any hurry to do that, however. Sighing, Dean settled back in the chair. All he could do now was wait. The problem was Dean had never been very good at waiting.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam's head felt fuzzy and there was a strange buzzing in his ears. His body felt numb and his eyes were burning as he peeled them open. At first he couldn't see anything but a smear of muted colours, like paint dripping down a canvas. He blinked, and tried to clear his vision. It didn't help; he shuttered his eyes, and finally the room began to sharpen.

His eyes sluggishly took in the unfamiliar surroundings, his heart beat a staccato rhythm in his chest. The walls were off-white, the room small. He was lying in a bed, several thick blankets piled around him, the heat seeping through to his bones. He frowned. The cold was the last thing he remembered. The cold and the pain. The pain had been terrible. The absence of both was a blessing.

Sam tried to move but could barely roll his head. He felt weak and exhausted. It was taking all his energy to keep his eyes open. Images of a blue-faced woman and a snarling creature encroached on his concious mind. Memories of running, of paralysing fear and of fighting for his life assaulted him. It was like a waking nightmare, only Sam knew it hadn't been a dream, that these images were real. A chill raced through him and he was struck with the overwhelming need to run. His brow furrowed deeper as he forced his mind back to reality.

He was in a hospital, which meant they had made it out of The Hills. The Annis was dead; he remembered that much. He also remembered his brother and father had been with him.

Panic swelled in his stomach and he rolled his head across the pillow. He wasn't sure how he'd known Dean would be sitting at his bedside, but Sam wasn't surprised to see his brother keeping vigil there. His head pillowed on one fist, Dean's other was bound in a sling across his chest. There were cuts and bruises decorating his face, and dark smudges underscored his closed eyes. He looked awful.

"Dean?" Sam's voice sounded scratchy and hoarse. He tried again, his voice a little louder this time. It was enough. Dean stirred, his waking almost as slow as Sam's had been, his expression laced with pain until he realised what had woken him.

"Sammy..." His eyes locked onto Sam's, relief rolling off him in waves. "Thank god." Guardedly, Dean pushed himself to his feet awkwardly, wincing at the movement, and moved over to the bed. "You in any pain? The doc's got you hooked up to the industrial strength stuff but I'm sure she can give you a top-up."

Sam swallowed hard, his throat dry. That explained the lack of pain. "I'm okay."

Dean studied him, his good hand gripping the bed rail. "You scared the shit out of me, Sam," he admitted quietly.

"Sorry." It seemed a hopelessly inadequate thing to say.

"Yeah, well, next time you decide to take on the Granny equivalent of The Hulk make sure you're packing a grenade launcher."

Sam's lips quirked a little at the corners. "Won't be a next time, Dean." His eyes slid shut for a moment before he forced them open. Dean was staring at him, concern painted clearly across his face.

"You OK?" he demanded.

"Just tired." Sam blinked owlishly, trying to focus on his brother again but he was seeing double.

"Probably the amount of crap they've pumped you full of." Dean paused, then arched a brow. "Not to mention the dicing with death and Mr Frosty impersonation you pulled. Dude, next time you want a little attention, all you have to do is ask."

Sam frowned, trying to recall what had happened between the wolf attacking them and waking up in the hospital, but most of his memories were hazy.

"How long have I been here?" Sam licked his lips, his mouth dry.

Dean carefully picked up a cup off the nightstand and helped him to drink it. Sam managed only a few sips, but he nodded gratefully.

"A while. You were in surgery forever, and then you've been doing a snoozing act for the last three hours." Dean smiled at him, relief in the gesture.

"Sorry."

Dean shrugged.

"Not really your fault, Sam."

It didn't stop him feeling guilty, however.

"Where's Dad?" Sam asked, shifting a little in the bed. He groaned at the movement, a dull pain radiating through his torso. He was grateful he was on the good stuff. It hurt enough with it; god knows what it would have been like without it.

"He's with Bobby and Josh."

Sam frowned. "Bobby's here?"

Dean nodded. "Josh called him. Caleb doesn't have any real family so Bobby's gonna look after him while he's mending. He's a regular Florence Nightingale – only bitchy as hell."

Sam remembered Caleb getting hurt, and he remembered it was because of him. Guilt burnt through him. "Caleb OK?"

Dean's expression was schooled, but Sam caught the slight tightening around his brother's eyes.

"Dean, what is it?"

"Nothin' Sammy. Caleb'll be fine. He's getting the five-star treatment as we speak."

Sam wanted to push his brother harder, ask him more, get the truth of the matter, but he was so tired. The effort of speaking seemed too much.

"Dean?" Sam mumbled, his eyes closing of their own volition.

"Yeah?"

"This wasn't your fault either."

"It's my job look after you Sammy." Dean's tone was dejected. "Guess I screwed up."

"Dean..." Sam was already giving into the pull of sleep, darkness creeping into his peripheral vision, but he didn't want his brother to beat himself up over this. "There's nothing you could have done to stop it."

"No, probably not," Dean said quietly, "but I swear to god Sam, I'll die before I let anything like this happen to you again."

Sam frowned at the statement, knowing there was something very wrong about it, that he should call Dean on it, but he could feel the effects of the drugs dragging him under.

_To be continued...._

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_AN - just wanted to say thanks to Vizio for pointing out about Twilight not being out in 1996. I'm usually pretty on top of the trivia - and by on top I mean I usually check everything to the tenth thousand degree to make sure it is a) relevant, b) existed at the time of the story and c) that I know enough about it that I can talk about it sufficiently (thank god for youtube), but that one slipped through. I have dutifully removed it and changed the wording. I hang my head in shame for letting that one through, but hey, I'm human. Maybe it just feels like Stephenie Meyer has been around forever...  
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	17. Chapter 17

_AN - And to the end of an era. This is it folks, the final chapter. It's been a long ride and I want to thank you all for sticking with it and for all the support you've given me - despite my really crappy updating schedule. Thanks to Leigh for the hand holding and nudging. Also for betaing this from start to finish. You probably feel like you have written this damn thing with me, the length of time you've been working on it with me!! and lastly, to Jenilee. I hope this was everything you wanted when you asked... well **demanded**... this story. I'm very very sorry it took so long to finish - I'm guessing this will be the last story you ask for from me!! :) Anywho, enough talking. To the story. Enjoy_

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**Epilogue**

_**Lawrence County, South Dakota**_

___**Thursday 11 April, 1996**_

The air was cool when Sam stepped out onto the porch, the sky a murky, overcast grey. Fastening his coat, he slowly made his way down the steps, wood creaking underfoot. He moved carefully, wending his way through the twisted car wrecks littering the salvage yard, his eyes watchful but not really seeing anything.

It had been four weeks since they had arrived in Deadwood. Four weeks since he had seen his first monster. Four weeks since the hunt that had nearly killed him. It wasn't long enough. The memories were still fresh in Sam's mind. He remembered the feeling of panic, the fear. He remembered how it felt to come so close to death only to be pulled back to safety in the last minute, and that was something he never wanted to experience again.

A wave of exhaustion nearly toppled him. Sam braced himself against the hood of a half-dismembered car, his eyes squeezing shut, his hair falling into his eyes. His ribs were aching and his body felt as if he had run a marathon despite the fact he was only a stones throw from Bobby's house. Sam let out a frustrated breath. He had no idea how his father could come home as beat up as he did and go hunting a few days later. It had taken Sam the best part of two weeks to even get out of bed, and that had been pushing it.

Mentally, he ran over the list of injuries he had sustained and raised his gaze toward the sky. Was this to be his life now? Hunting had seemed exciting, noble even, when his brother and father had talked about it, but Sam had seen the terrifying reality of their lifestyle. It wasn't brave or honourable. It was downright insane. Who in their right mind went out hunting for these things? Sam was starting to wonder if John was suffering from some kind of mental instability, one that he was pressing upon Dean.

"Sammy!" He twisted his head at the panicked voice, watching as his brother moved down the steps of the porch and hurried over to him. "You OK?" his brother demanded concerned. Sam realised he was still leaning against the hood of the car; to Dean it probably looked like he was one step from face-planting.

With a resolve greater than he felt, he pushed off the car, the metal creaking under his weight, and stood on his own. "I'm fine, Dean. You don't need to follow me everywhere I go."

He hadn't meant to snap, but Sam was finding it difficult to stand his brother's constant fussing. Dean had been... different over the last few weeks. He'd always been overprotective but since the Annis he'd been overbearing. Sam could barely take a piss without his brother hovering. He was amazed he made it this far outside before Dean had appeared.

"Clearly I do," Dean bristled. "What the hell are you doing out here anyway? Did you forget that you only just got out of the hospital?"

Sam rolled his eyes. Like he could forget. His brother listed his injuries every time Sam so much as moved.

"I needed some space," Sam replied quietly, his eyes unfocused once more as he sank back against the car. He was tired of everything.

He could practically feel Dean's frown. "Space?"

Sam slid a side-long glance towards his brother as he moved in next to him. "You're smothering me," he replied pointedly. "Between you, Dad, Josh, and Bobby, I feel like I can't move without an inquisition."

"We're just worried about you, Sam. You were pretty banged up."

_Banged up, beat up, hurt, bad shape... _Dean used every phrase he could think of apart from the one that covered it. Sam didn't blame his brother for not saying it; he would have felt the same. The truth was still the truth, however. Sam had nearly died. It made his family's actions understandable, but it didn't stop them from being any less annoying.

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam repeated firmly, ignoring the ache in his ribs, and the slight shake in his legs.

"Really?" Dean raised a sceptical brow. "'Cause I wasn't the one who nearly had my skin flayed off me, and I'm nowhere near fine."

Sam cringed at the memory. It was one that would stay with him for a long time. Absently, his hand strayed to the bandages covering his forearm, but his gaze remained on the horizon.

Bobby's house was surrounded by tall trees, and the smell of motor oil permeated the air thickly. They'd known Bobby for a while, and whenever they came through this part of the country, John would often stop at the mechanic's house for a few days and stock up on supplies before moving on. Sam loved it. It was the only time he felt normal. Sam was surprised they were still here. He'd expected his father to move them on as soon as he was released from the hospital. The fact John hadn't left yet proved to Sam how much his near-death experience had scared his father.

"Do you ever wish we were normal?" Sam asked after a long silence.

Dean shifted his shoulders. "Normal's overrated."

Sam snorted. "I'd take normal over this any day."

Silence fell between them both again.

"I meant what I said, you know?" Dean said finally.

"About what?" Sam asked, meeting his brother's gaze.

"About not letting anything happen to you." Dean glanced down at his hands. "I let you down, Sammy, but that won't happen again."

"Dean, you can't protect me from everything, and it's not your job to either."

The smile his brother gave him was wry. "I'm your big brother, dude. I only have three jobs: to teach you about girls, make sure you get a good set of wheels and to watch your ass." He cocked a brow. "Although considering the fact you seem to have a bulls eye painted on yours, I think you're gonna overwork me doing the last one."

Sam pulled a face at him. "It's not like I went looking for trouble."

Dean gave him a knowing look. "Really?"

Sam stiffened. He'd left the cabin – despite his father's instructions to stay inside. That was trouble with a capital T.

"Does Dad know?" he asked, a little apprehensive. If John knew he disobeyed orders, he hadn't said anything, but that didn't mean much. John had a long memory.

"Nope," Dean replied. "Me and Bobby went to the cabin to pack up our stuff while you were in the hospital, and he won't say a word. I think Bobby thinks you've more than learned your lesson about following a direct order."

"A direct order?" Sam scoffed. "We're not soldiers, Dean, as much as Dad wants us to be."

The bitterness in his tone didn't go unnoticed by his older brother. Dean's voice was filled with reproof when he answered.

"Dad does what he has to, Sammy. His methods might seem hard but, in case you haven't noticed, we don't exactly live in Disney World. We've got to be able to take care of ourselves when he's not around – _both_ of us."

It wasn't meant as a criticism, but Sam took it as one. "She kicked all of our asses, Dean. I did the best I could."

Dean raised his hands defensively. "I know, I know, but the best you could nearly resulted in you ending up worm food, dude. You've gotta be sharper, stronger, faster."

"Screw you, Dean," Sam bit out angrily at what he saw as a personal attack. He'd always felt inferior to his brother, like his Dad saw him as weak, as the baby who needed to be looked after all the time, the ball-and-chain around his family's ankles, but having it confirmed by his brother hurt more than he could have imagined.

He started to storm off towards the house but was halted by his brother making a grab for his arm. Sam tried to shrug him off, but Dean held tight. Even one-handed, his brother's grip was iron-clad.

"Hey, I'm not judging you – I mean, you did enough to survive, and that's all that matters, Sam, but you've gotta be prepared next time. We should have taught you this crap before now."

Sam felt his temper deflate at the worry in Dean's eyes. He let his arm fall to his side as his brother released his grip. "Dean, I know you're my big brother and, for some reason, you think it's your job to throw yourself in the fire for me, but its not. We're supposed to look after each other."

Dean's expression was unreadable as he studied his brother. "We're not going to have to hug now, are we?" Dean grinned.

Sam found himself matching his brother's smirk.

"I wouldn't want to ruin you reputation, Dean."

Squaring his shoulders, Dean smiled at him. "Take more than a hug to ruin that."

The sound of an engine rumbling in the distance brought the conversation to an abrupt halt. Both boys glanced up expectantly and, after a moment, Bobby's blue truck appeared from behind the graveyard of twisted cars. Dean patted his brother's leg and pushed off the hood.

"Heart to heart over, Sammy," he said, dodging the punch Sam aimed at him as he moved towards the truck now pulling up in front of the house. Sam was just a few steps behind him.

Bobby looked pissed as he climbed out of the driver's side. John followed a moment later, his expression amused. Dean shot a questioning glance at his father, but he shook his head, his lips pulled into a tight line, trying to hold back a smirk as he moved to the back door and opened it.

Caleb slowly swung his legs out of the car, fumbling on the seat next to him for his crutches. His face still bore the scars of the hunt, as did his arms, but it was the cast from his ankle to his thigh that caught Sam's eye. Guilt threatened to consume him. Caleb had gotten hurt trying to protect him from the Annis, and he had nearly died trying to save him. Sam wondered how things would have turned out if he had just stayed in the cabin, if he hadn't gone to the library in Deadwood to research the hunt. Would Caleb have been hurt? Everything had worked out, but Sam couldn't stop his mind from wading through the 'what-ifs'.

"Are you going to help me out of this death trap?" Caleb asked Bobby, a smile forming on his lips.

Sam had no idea what was going on, but Bobby shot Caleb a dark glare.

"Help your damn self," Bobby grouched. "The doc said you need to keep moving on that thing."

"You are one surly bastard, Robert," Caleb said lightly, sliding his hands through the guard on the crutches. The look Bobby shot him was dark.

"You only just got out of the hospital, boy. You want to go back there?"

Caleb laughed. "You need to lighten up, old man."

Bobby's mouth moved wordlessly, but he didn't get the chance to reply.

"I don't mean to interrupt your lovers spat, but what in the hell is goin' on with you two?" Joshua Turner's voice sounded from behind them. Sam started, flicking his gaze over his shoulder. He hadn't even heard the hunter come out of the house, but Joshua was stood on the porch, leaning against the railing, his expression amused.

After the hunt, everyone had converged at Bobby's small house. Sam wasn't sure if the mechanic was happy or annoyed about it. Half of the time he seemed glad of the company, but as the weeks had passed his temperament had gone from irritable to downright cantankerous. Sam suspected there was a reason most hunters worked in isolation; they didn't play nice with each other.

"Ain't nothing going on that you need to know about," Bobby snapped, shooting daggers in Caleb's direction once more.

Pushing his crutches into the ground, Caleb hoisted himself to his feet, taking the weight on his good leg. "Ignore Mr Grumpy, he's just pissed."

"I can see that," Joshua replied. "What I ain't seein' is why."

"Because junior over here is a goddamn extortionist," the mechanic growled.

Caleb tentatively took a step forward, his attention split between concentrating on walking and Bobby. John covered a laugh with a cough as the mechanic glared at him.

"Oh, come on, Bobby. I've lived on hospital food for a month. Was it really a lot to ask for dinner?"

Bobby snorted. "Dinner, no. The whole damn menu, yes. You sure they didn't put another stomach in there when you were in the OR?"

"Not to mention the fact he ended up footing your hospital bills, Caleb," John added with a grin.

Caleb rolled his eyes. "I was unconscious, John, and you were the ones who decided to tell the hospital that Bobby was my loving older brother. It was completely out of my hands."

"You never heard of a little thing called insurance?" Bobby demanded.

"I usually don't stick around long enough to have to pay bills, so why would I waste my money on insurance?"

Bobby growled a string of obscenities that made Sam's ears hot.

"Oh, calm down for god sake," Caleb grinned. "I'll pay you back."

"Yeah, well, you better. Your damn treatment cost the earth, Caleb."

Joshua pushed off the railing and moved slowly down the steps towards Caleb. "So how you feelin' soldier?"

"I'm good," Caleb answered, leaning heavily on his crutches. "Admittedly, not running around, wind-in-my-hair good, but I'm getting there." He glanced passed Joshua towards the house. "Where's Russ? I thought he would have been part of the welcoming committee."

Joshua shifted uncomfortably. "You know Russ. He ain't one for big reunions."

"You mean he blames himself so he's not here," Caleb countered.

"Of course he does, it was his damn fault we were all out there in the first place," Joshua shot back.

Caleb gave him a strange look. "We're hunters, Josh. Things happen. No hunt is fool-proof."

Joshua sighed. "Yeah, but Russ ain't exactly one for planning hunts through, Caleb. If he had, we probably could've saved ourselves a hell of a lot of grief."

Caleb gave him a watery smile. "Probably, but there isn't any point dwelling on what we could have done better. Hindsight's a bitch, Joshua. Your father thought we were hunting a wolf – so did I. No one could have accounted for that _thing_ being up there. I've never even heard of a Black Annis outside of England. I didn't expect one to turn up in the middle of South Dakota."

"None of us did," John agreed.

"Look, there's a list of shit I wish we'd done differently. Wrestling with a psychotic granny was definitely not my best plan and I'm paying for it now," Caleb said, inclining his head towards his cast, "but we did what we could with what we had at the time. Russ might be an idiot, but he hauled his ass into that thing's lair, barely able to stand up, and dragged Sam out of there before she was able to do god knows what to him. I think Russell has more than atoned for his lousy judgement."

Joshua looked contrite but didn't offer any reply.

Sam had stood quietly to one side, guilt burrowing deep inside his heart. He hadn't been in any shape to visit Caleb in the hospital but, in all honesty, he hadn't wanted to go. He hadn't wanted to see Caleb in a mess because of him. A broken leg, bruising to his kidneys and liver, multiple cuts and bruises... Sam had guilt in spades. His leg was the worst of the injuries, though. Luckily, it had been a clean break, but the doctor had pumped Caleb full of antibiotics to stave off the risk of infection.

It hadn't worked.

For a week after the attack, Caleb had been in bad shape. Sam thought it was nothing short of a miracle that their friend had pulled through at all, and hated that he was the cause of it.

Caleb met his gaze suddenly as if he knew Sam was thinking about him.

"And how about you, Sammy – how are you feeling?" he asked.

"I'm fine," Sam said quietly, "thanks to you."

Caleb smiled at him, his gaze intense. Sam shifted under the scrutiny. "I heard you'd joined the ranks of organ-less." When Sam gave him a puzzled look, Caleb continued to explain. "Your Dad said you're now spleenless."

"Oh. Yeah. They had to take it out," Sam confirmed. He still wasn't sure how he felt about the loss of an organ. It seemed like it should be a monumental event, that he should have mourned for it but, in the grand scheme of things, it seemed like a small price to pay.

"Yeah, well, don't worry about it, kid. I've been spleenless for the last five years. Never done me any harm," Joshua said with a grin.

"Even I'm organ-less," Dean added. John shot him a confused look. "Hey, tonsils count as an organ," Dean said defensively.

"As fun as this little get-together is, do you guys think we could take it inside." Caleb continued to move slowly forward on his crutches without waiting for a response. "Some of us are only functioning on one leg."

"Are you plannin' on whining till you're back on your feet?" Joshua asked mildly.

"Every chance I get," Caleb admitted. "I nearly died. I think that calls for a little whining."

"Like you need an excuse," Bobby grunted.

Caleb smiled. "Oh, and for the record, as much as I like you guys, the next time you have a hunt, please don't call me. I can guarantee, I'll be out of town."

**_The End..._**


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